#and this lands him in the ancestral hall

[mxtxfanatic]

You know what makes me very infuriated with Jiang Cheng (apart from everything else), if he had shut his mouth and was not homophobic for five seconds,none of the confusion of feelings leading up to the temple between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian would have happened. By the tree scene when Lan Wangji catches him it's pretty clear WWX is both aware of his own and Lan Wangji's feelings and comfortable with them. It's Jiang Cheng who makes him doubt himself and I'm still mad about it.

What fills me up with hate makes this even funnier is that there’s a not insignificant portion of the fandom that has made homophobic Jiang Cheng their Gay Icon™️. The man whose homophobic tantrum almost ruined the actual factual canonical queer relationship in the novel is now fandom’s queer fav.

Nothing but pure comedy.

[spider-stark]

LADY STRONG

Benjicot Blackwood x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Warnings - none except not edited!!

Word Count - 3.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.  

You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.  

What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.  

Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.  

Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.  

“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”  

The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.  

Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”  

“I study!”  

“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.  

Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he's the heir to the Iron Throne. I am merely the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”  

And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.  

Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.  

Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”  

“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”  

His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”  

Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.  

Gods.  

You hate it when he’s right.  

“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”  

Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”  

“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”  

“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”  

Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”  

All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.  

Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”  

Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”  

You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.  

An hour—that's all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.  

How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one can consider nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.  

Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”  

You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”  

Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.  

“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.  

“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”  

The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.  

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”  

Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”  

“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.  

“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”  

With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”  

Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.  

You miss home. Desperately.  

You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.  

But even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.  

Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.  

Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.  

Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.  

As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.  

You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.  

He’s talented—you think, studying his form.  

Talent is something you're familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself. Yet never before had you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.  

He didn’t move like other boys.  

He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.  

Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.  

Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.  

He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.  

Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.  

“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”  

The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.  

Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”  

You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”  

His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”  

You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”  

A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”  

Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.  

Seven Hells. He doesn't know, does he?

A sudden speechlessness grabs hold of your tongue.  

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you aren't what many expected of a Targaryen princess.

Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.  

Even so, it's rare that you met someone who doesn't know who you are. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.  

“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”  

“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”  

“Southern?”  

Benji nods.  

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”  

The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.  

Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”  

Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”  

Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.  

“Why not?”  

He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”  

Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.  

“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”  

Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”  

Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”  

Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.  

“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to defend her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”  

You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.  

He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”  

“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”  

Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”  

The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.  

“What of me?”  

A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”  

Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.  

Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.  

It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.  

But this was different.  

Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.  

Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was too forward and-”  

You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”  

“A deal?”  

You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”  

Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”  

“I know what you��re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”  

In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.  

“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”  

Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”  

“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”  

The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”  

You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.  

“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”  

Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent. 

Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.  

“Princess...” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”  

You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.  

“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”  

You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.  

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.  

Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”  

You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.  

“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”  

a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??

and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.

anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot

benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus

[humanpurposes]

August

Part 1: Possibilities and Peace Offerings

Your family has been invited to spend August at Dragonstone, where things get a little tense after an unfortunate first encounter with Aemond Targaryen, one he's determined to put right.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader // Modern AU

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

Warnings: 18+, nothing too bad here, eventual smut, slight enemies to lovers, mutual pining

Words: 7k

A/n: Summer romance is here!! hope you likeeee. This is going to be three parts in total.

The impending summer exists beyond time, beyond the rest of the world. Exams are over and you’ve already received a mark for your dissertation. The dorm room you called home for three years is packed up and returned to its prison-like appearance, just as it was when you were an eager and excitable fresher. Suddenly the world is an endless sea of possibilities and you’re standing on the water’s edge with nothing to lose.

You spend a few weeks with your friends, drinking in pub gardens and driving down to the rammed beaches along the coast near King’s Landing, but this summer of possibility takes an unexpected turn when your father receives an invitation to spend the month of August at Dragonstone, as a guest of Viserys Targaryen. Viserys and your father have been business partners for just under a decade, but to be welcomed into his inner circle, to the ancestral home of the Targaryen family, is another honour altogether. 

Your parents are beside themselves with excitement. You’re a little more sceptical but you won’t let them know it. So once your uni friends have gone back to their hometowns, you pack an array of swimsuits and summer dresses into a suitcase, and bundle into the backseat of your father’s car. 

The aircon is on full blast. You sip on the last of your water as an 80s playlist blares through your headphones to block out the conversation of investments, clients, lawsuits and legal fees from the front seats.

Dragonstone is three things; an island, a town, and a castle. You drive out of the city, red and grey buildings blurring into greenery and vast spaces of blue, the sky and the sea. A ferry takes you from the mainland to the island’s port. The song you were listening to fades away as you slip your headphones off your ears. The town is utterly charming, from the rows of fishing boats in the harbour to the cobbled streets and obscure little buildings, bookshops, bakeries and butchers. The sun shines brightly, heat pulses through the window even with the blast of cool air.

A few more miles and you reach a gatehouse, ancient stone walls smothered with ivy, guarded by two stone creatures with their jaws wide open— dragons with spikes and sharp teeth. The driveway is lined with thick trees and foliage. Suddenly you turn a corner and there it is, towers and turrets reaching up into the summer sky, hundreds of windows, more carvings of dragons looming proudly over where Blackwater Bay becomes the Narrow Sea. 

The man who greets you by the doors is not a Targaryen. He has dark hair, dark eyes, a crisp white shirt and a radio on his belt. Your father seems to know him already. He greets him as “Cole,” and introduces him to you and your mother.

Cole offers his hand to you. “Criston,” he insists, “I’m the head of Mr Targaryen’s security.”

Two identical butlers take your bags from the car while Criston shows you into the entrance hall. He comments on the antiques and the 14th century timbers, leading you through to the room he calls “the waiting chamber”. It has high ceilings, wood panelled walls, an enormous fireplace and aged but comfortable looking leather sofas at the edges of the room. You note the portraits on the walls, the more recent photographs on the mantle, but before you can get a proper look, someone announces their own arrival into the room.

Viserys Targaryen has his arms open, dressed far more casually than you’ve seen him at various galas and events, he even has a pair of aviators keeping his silver hair out of his face. He greets your father with a smile and a firm handshake, his eyes sharp but somewhat hollow. 

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, moving onto your mother and then to you. “We’re having drinks on the patio, enjoying the sun. Why don’t you join us?” He chuckles and you don’t really understand why. You’re not sure how any of this works.

Viserys leads you through the house, stopping by the great hall and the library, pointing out details like Criston did. His home is devoted to family and every furnishing carries some sentimental value. The curtains and the sofas in the library are Arryn blue for his first wife, the shelves are laden with books that belonged to his grandfather. There are items here which have belonged to the Targaryens for generations and their house’s sigil is carved into the walls and wooden beams. 

At last you come to a hall with tall windows, glass chandeliers and marble floors. Viserys calls this “the west gallery”, a more modern addition to the castle, built in the 17th century. He opens a double glass door and you can already see the sprawling green gardens, the unnatural blue of a swimming pool somewhere in the distance. Before all that is the raised patio, an array of chairs and the people sitting in them.

You step into the heat of the garden, into cigarette smoke and the sounds of laughter, loud and seemingly rehearsed. Your father knows most of these people, other associates of Targ Corp, Corlys Velaryon and his wife Rhaenys Tagraryen, Jason Lannister and his wife Joanna, Lyonel Strong and his son Larys. Even Otto Hightower is lounging back in his chair, sunglasses over his eyes, a pale pink cocktail in a crystal glass. 

Your parents smile graciously, your mother clutching her handbag over her shoulder, your father wiping the sweat from his brow, trying to air out the damp patches in his shirt. They’ll want to make a good impression. Each person staying at Dragonstone this summer is another opportunity for your father.

You glance down at your denim shorts and your sandals— an outfit for comfort, not for networking.

Viserys directs the three of you to a cushioned wooden bench and you squeeze in beside your mother. Another butler appears and offers you all a drink. Your parents both ask for a gin and tonic. You’re thinking that you’d like to dunk yourself in the pool, so you ask for a large glass of water. 

“With ice and lemon, miss?”

“Yeah, please, if you have it?”

Your mother nudges you with her elbow and whispers in your ear. “This is Dragonstone, if you want it they probably have it.”

“If I asked for the Prince of Pentos’ phone number, do you think they’d bring it out on a silver tray?” You return with a grin.

The minutes drag by. Lyonel Strong asks your father about his law practice. Corlys Velaryon and Jason Lannister enter a heated discussion about yachts. Otto Hightower mentions the name “Daemon” and the other voices go quiet. You take large gulps of your water, occasionally sharing silent looks with your mother.

The heat is sweltering. You feel your head pulsing, your skin becoming damp and you worry you may end up as a puddle on the patio if you don’t find a reason to escape soon.

The glass doors open and two women enter the garden, one with auburn hair, dressed in a floral dress and high heels. The other, younger, blonde hair cut into a fashionably short fringe, barefoot, dressed in denim shorts and baggy t-shirt, goes straight to Otto. She doesn’t look at anyone else. She stands behind Otto and leans down to wrap her arms around his neck. This must be Alicent Hightower and her daughter.

Alicent makes her rounds elegantly. She’s familiar with all the people present, except for the three of you, the outsiders, piled onto a single piece of garden furniture. Her eyes are wide and brown, her lips full and fallen slightly even when she smiles. She asks about the journey from King’s Landing, if you’ve had a chance to explore the town.

She asks you a lot of questions too, what you do, where you studied, what your plans are for the Autumn. And once she’s found out what she wants from you, she starts telling you everything about her children, unprompted.

“Helaena’s starting a PhD in a few weeks, staying in King’s Landing– King’s college, of course, not KLU, seven heavens. We didn’t want her to be too far away from home,” she says, looking back at her daughter and her father. “Etymology. Well, she’s always had a thing for insects, I could never understand it, but it’s easier to let her follow her interests, she’s that sort of girl.

“Now Aegon is like that too, he likes a lot of things, would be nice if he could be interested in something that makes him money. Oh well, he’s into the arts, fancies himself a photographer, directed a few plays at university– Oldtown. He wrote a screenplay, you must remind me to show you, it’s really quite clever. It’s about injustice or something like that.

“Daeron is at Oldtown too, at Citadel Boys. He’s the only child I sent to board, I just felt he might be happy with a bit of space from all of us. He wants to go to Oldtown like his brothers. His father wants him to do economics, but he’s very good at history.

“Aemond did history, but then he trained in accountancy. He’s worked all over, Oldtown, Storm’s End, Harrenhal, but he’s looking to stay in King’s Landing now–”

“Mum, you’ll bore her to tears,” Helaena says and it’s only now you notice that she’s moved to stand in front of you. 

Alicent frowns.

You stifle a smile and raise your brows hopefully.

“Do you know where you’re sleeping yet?” Helaena asks, looking at her mother.

“I’ve put her in the moat room,” Alicent says. She turns back to you, “I’m sorry, darling, you’re probably tired, aren’t you? Helaena can show you your room.”

You kiss your mother's cheek and agree to reconvene for dinner in the evening.

“Sorry about mum, she just jumps at the chance to talk about her kids,” Helaena says as you walk back through the west gallery.

“It’s sort of cute,” you say, staring up at the gold detailing on the ceiling. “Very informative.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says with a wicked smile.

When Helaena laughs she scrunches up her eyes and her nose. She sways her arms by her sides as she walks and trails her fingertips on the walls. Unlike Criston or Viserys, she doesn’t have little anecdotes about any of the vases or paintings on display. She’s a juxtaposition of her family’s ancestral home, airy and lighthearted, earthy and inexplicably real.

“Your parents are probably in the west wing,” she explains as you come to a winding stairwell. “That’s where everyone else will be too. The moat room is on the other side of the house.”

You nod along, stealing glances out the windows, at the gardens, and from higher up, you can see the sea.

“Don’t be too disheartened though,” Helaena says, “that means you’re with us.”

She shows you your room first. It sits at the very corner of the castle with windows to the north and the east. The moat in question isn’t a moat, it’s more of a well kept ditch. By the rest of the house you were half expecting the room to be medieval, but to your surprise it’s bright, carpeted, sans priceless antiques and heirlooms. A queen-sized bed waits for you piled with pillows. 

“I’m down the hall, and the boys are in the next corridor,” Helaena explains. “If you smell something suspicious, it’s Aegon.”

She helps you unpack your suitcase, admiring your swimsuits and looking through the small collection of books you’ve brought to pass the time.

She shows you her room which is further down the corridor. It’s much larger than yours, far more personal. She has worn patterned rugs over the wooden floors, dark blue wallpaper and accents of gold everywhere, the mirror over her vanity, the handles on the drawers and the wardrobe. You’re most intrigued by the framed taxidermies on the walls, butterflies with the most beautiful wings you’ve ever seen, moths, beetles, even a scorpion.

You’re a little relieved when you see a cat curled up on her bed, with a thick white coat, brown ears. 

“Dreamfyre,” Helaena says, scooping the cat up in her arms. “She’s named after the Valryian god of prophecy and wisdom.”

You hold your hand out for Dreamfyre to sniff. She considers you for a moment, and runs her head against your fingers. “So can she tell me my future?” you ask.

Helaena stares at you. “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a cat. Why, hoping for something in particular?”

“I like to see where life takes me,” you say.

After exchanging phone numbers and scrolling through each other’s Spotify playlists, Helaena tells you that she thinks the two of you are going to be friends.

Dinner is surprisingly more pleasant, where you all eat around a table on the patio. Being outside is far more bearable once the sun starts to set and a breeze sweeps in from the sea. You’re served white fish, potato salad coated in herbs which Alicent says she grows herself, summer vegetables, grilled courgettes, red and yellow peppers, sweet and tangy tomatoes, washed down with white wine.

You sit beside Helaena, opposite two of her brothers, Aegon and Daeron. Daeron is far taller than his older brother but his face is clearly younger. His pale blond hair is slightly overgrown, his nose a little pink and his skin freckled from being in the sun. “Aemond managed to beat me at tennis today,” he says.

Aegon rolls his eyes, far more concerned with scratching the ears of a golden labrador perched on the floor beside him.

You look to Helaena for an explanation.

“Daeron’s looking to go pro. Aemond can’t stand that he’s not the best at something.”

There’s an empty space at the head of the table, between Aegon and Helaena. You’ve yet to see any other evidence that the elusive middle brother exists.

“There’s a tennis court here?” You ask.

“Towards the water garden, you should be able to see it from the moat room.” Helaena says. “You should have a look.”

Dessert is pistachio ice-cream, then everyone starts to disperse. Aegon grabs a bottle of wine and he and Daeron traipse over to a firepit at the edge of the patio, followed by the labrador. Your parents follow Viserys and the others into the house. Corlys and Rhaenys linger at the table, staring up at the sky and taking long drags from their cigarettes.

You trail Helaena to a neatly kept kitchen. Some of the staff pass through, into a far larger back room with metal surfaces, where the real cooking is done. Criston sits at the kitchen island on a stool, eating a pasta salad from a glass bowl. Helaena pats his head as she passes him. He doesn’t seem surprised by it, perhaps it’s a common occurrence.

“Feel free to grab anything you want, by the way. There’s all sorts of snacks and stuff, and if you want more of something give Criston a shout,” Helaena says, picking out bags of chocolate buttons and sour sweets from a cupboard.

“That’s kind,” you say, twisting your fingers over each other in front of you. “I’m quite tired, I think I might just have a shower and go to bed.”

“Darling, it’s summer, you can do whatever you want,” Helaena says. “See you at breakfast, yeah?” She pulls you into a quick hug and disappears out into the garden.

Not wanting to linger when Criston’s phone starts to ring, you decide to brave it and find your way back to your bedroom. Aegon and Daeron seem like fun, maybe too much fun for tonight, you just need to sleep off the fatigue from the sun.

This place is far too big for you to feel settled just yet. It amazes you how everyone can navigate the castle so easily, it’s like a maze. Eventually you find your way back to the entrance hall. You think you might know the way to the east wing from here, but when you see the sky beyond the windows, lilac and orange, dotted with grey clouds and the first few stars of the evening, you want to make the most of the dying light. Maybe you could head towards the water garden and find the tennis court.

Your sandals crunch against the gravel which stretches out into paths leading in three directions. The central one leads to the driveway and the gatehouse. To the left is the gardens past the edge of the moat, and to the right is an outlook and a downhill path which disappears from sight, which you assume leads down to the sea. You can hear the waves in the distance.

The sunlight is fading fast. You cross your arms over yourself, shivering and regretting the lack of a cardigan. You tell yourself you might warm up with a bit of a walk.

You take a few paces down the path towards the gardens– a dog’s bark has your heart leaping out of your chest. It’s deep and loud, coming from behind you. Your head darts around. An enormous dog has emerged from the downhill path and is bounding towards you, covering ground quickly.

You keep your feet planted on the ground, out of fear

The dog, a great dane, stops before you— it truly is huge, its head would come up to your torso if you were close enough, and you don’t really want to find out– barking viciously. Its teeth flash, flecks of saliva dripping from its mouth.

“Back off! Come, Vhagar!”

You look back along the path. A man in a black t-shirt and black shorts is walking quickly towards you and the dog. He grabs it by its collar and yanks it back, fastening it on a leash.

His eyes dart up— eye, you realise. The right side is a bright blue, the left is clouded, framed by a scar slicing down from his brow to his cheek.

“Who are you?” He asks like an accusation.

You hesitate, your heart still racing in panic.

You say your first name, then your family name, at that the man tuts and raises himself to full height, keeping the great dane on a short leash. “Right. What are you doing out here?”

“Just… looking around.”

“Just looking around someone else’s house?”

Gods now you’re really starting to panic. He’s glaring at you as if it’s your fault his dog just made a break for you.

He huffs irritably through his nose. “Look, Vhagar’s not always friendly and especially not around strangers. Be careful, yeah?” 

Vhagar now seems content enough sitting by her owner’s side, wagging her tail and panting with her tongue out. Her grey coat is covered in sand, especially her paws and her nose.

“If your dog’s not always friendly why wasn’t she on a leash?” 

His face hardens. Frowning suits his sharp features and the intensity of his eye. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is my fucking house.”

That explains the blond hair, and you suppose now he has the same lanky look as Daeron and the same gauntness in his face as Aegon.

“Right, your dog could have just mauled me but thanks for the friendly reminder.” You turn towards the house and mutter loud enough for him to overhear, “prick.”

You can’t shake the frustration. Nothing takes the edge off, not the hot stream of water from the shower, the routine of your skincare or the feeling of sinking into an impossibly soft mattress. Dragonstone is perfect… and all you want to do is scream, just a little.

Breakfast is served in the morning room, next to the kitchen, according to the text you got from Helaena. You put a swimsuit on, a patterned one piece and pull on some shorts. Before you head downstairs you grab a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of suncream and a book, determined that your morning will be peaceful and idyllic.

People flitter into the morning room as they please. Helaena is still in her pyjamas, tucking into a bowl of yoghurt and fruit. Daeron comes in and starts eating toast off Alicent’s plate, having already run a casual 5k about the grounds.

The man from last night is hovering by a side table, placing sausages and bacon onto a small plate. He glances sideways at you as you enter. 

You keep your teeth pressed together as you reach for a plate and go for the platter of pastries, reaching for an almond croissant.

His elbow must be a few inches from yours. “Morning,” he mutters.

You were half expecting him to act like you don’t exist. “Morning,” you mumble back.

“Have you two already met?” Helaena asks loudly from the table.

“Briefly,” he says.

“And you didn’t actually tell me your name,” you say, adding some strawberries to your plate for good measure.

“The boy has no manners,” Daeron says in a mocking voice, earning him an exasperated chide from his mother. Helaena giggles to herself.

He faces you fully. “Aemond,” he says.

“Good for you,” you say, and go to take a seat beside Helaena.

“Tea or coffee?” she asks you, reaching towards the two silver pots in the middle of the table.

“Coffee, please.���

Helaena makes a shocked expression. “Blasphemy. I’m a tea girl.” 

As Helaena pours some coffee into a china cup, Aemond takes the free seat opposite you. Your heart races a little, infuriated at the sight of him, somewhat guilty that your time at Dragonstone has already soured and his entire family is there to see it.

You add just a dash of milk to your coffee. In the corner of your eye you see him watching you, fork hovering in front of his face. You muster the confidence to look up and he averts his eye.

After you’ve finished your breakfast you head out to the patio, down the stone steps and to the pool, settling on one of the lounge chairs. Helaena has gone back up to her room to change and bring you both down a towel.

You lather suncream on your limbs, face and neck, and open your book. This is a nice kind of heat, one that you’re more prepared for. You can almost feel it permeating your skin, breathing new life into your blood. 

You get a few moments of bliss until a silhouette appears beside you.

You raise your eyes from the page, over the edges of your sunglasses, staring ahead at the surface of the pool. You can smell a man’s aftershave, and you can tell he’s too tall to be Aegon.

Ice clinks against glass. He leans down to place something on the small table beside you. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

You don’t want to turn your head, that might be misinterpreted as you actually caring.

But then Aemond’s voice takes on a lighter tone and he says, “Are you reading Crime and Punishment?” 

You scrunch your brows in bewilderment as you look up at him.

His eye moves between your face and the book in your lap

“Yeah,” you say, shifting your legs and drawing your knees closer to your torso, “I’m finding it a bit boring to be honest.”

His lips are parted ever so slightly and you can see the tips of his teeth. “It’s one of my favourite books.”

“I think that might explain a lot,” you say.

The corner of his mouth flickers like he might smile. He holds it back. 

“What’s this?” You ask, looking down at the glass of iced coffee he’s placed on the table. 

“A peace offering,” Aemond says. “I really am sorry about yesterday evening. I just… panicked. Vhagar isn’t always good around people she doesn’t trust. She bit my nephew once actually.”

“Oh, not good.”

“It was years ago, and to be fair to her—” he doesn’t finish that sentence. He presses his lips together. “I just thought I should apologise to you.”

Even when apologising he sounds smug.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you say.

He hums, it’s cryptic and it throws you off a little. He looks at you like he has a secret, like he’s managed to spot something that you haven’t. 

You feel aware of yourself and now you can’t breathe without doing it consciously. You feel beads of sweat forming at the back of your neck, the warmth of your own skin with your thighs pressed together, the pulse in your chest, the restless feeling in your stomach. You’re worried you might do something stupid, but how could you? You’re only sitting in a swimsuit and sunglasses, while Aemond is doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s looking at you– studying you with a hint of excitement in his eye.

And after about a minute of this he says, “enjoy your morning,” turning and strolling towards the patio. 

You clench your jaw, determined that you won’t look back at him, but you listen to his footsteps as they move away. 

With each line you read, you can only think of Aemond pouring over every word and making this book his bible. You imagine his hands holding the cover, his fingertip dragging over the page, his lips parted in concentration. It feels intrusive, it feels too involved. You couldn’t possibly put this book down now.

Aemond is an understated presence amongst his own family. He often lurks in the library or in a corner of the sitting room with a book. He wanders the gardens with his headphones on. He takes Vhagar down to the beach every evening and some nights you steal glances of them from a window at the front of the house. He gets these headaches, something to do with the scar over his eye, and when he does he likes to retreat to his room. When he is around for dinner he sits at the head of the table, opposite his father but miles away from him. He’s not a big talker but when he does have something to add to the conversation he commandeers it. Everyone stops to listen when he speaks.

You like watching him, the way he fiddles with anything within his reach, how he strokes his fingertips over his hands, the edge of his jaw. You look for his microexpressions, the twitches of his brow and the quirk of his lips when he finds something amusing, and how at the mentions of sensitive subjects or certain names, his eye widens. 

He smirks when he sees you looking, you don’t mind that he knows that you are.

You don’t want to seek him out, but you don’t try to avoid him either. He’s always somewhere in your periphery, his hand brushing against yours at the dinner table, the smell of his Marlboros wafting from the patio when you’re sitting by the pool which makes you wonder if he’s watching you. In the evenings after dinner, you and the Targaryen siblings hang around the firepit late into the night. Helaena and Daeron talk about constellations and roast marshmallows, Aegon plucks on a guitar, and you and Aemond fall into a game of pretending like you’re not looking at each other. 

Some nights you sit across from him, your view distorted by the heat and the flames. Other nights he dares to sit beside you, close enough that his leg will rest against yours. He keeps his voice soft until you’re leaning in closer to catch every word he says, this insufferable man who bings you a coffee every morning and asks you about the books you read.

One night Aemond is sat beside you. Helaena sings along to Aegon’s guitar, Daeron drums his fingers against his legs, gazing in wonder at his siblings because moments like this are a rarity for him.

“Do you forgive me yet?” Aemond asks, his arm draped along the back of the bench you sit on. Maybe he can read your mind because you’ve been silently begging for him to come closer… closer…

Your senses are hazy, the smoke of the fire, the scent of cigarettes and aftershave lingering on Aemond’s shirt, the glasses of wine you had with dinner, the clear, cold night air piercing the backs of your arms. He notices you shivering and slips his arm around your shoulders, slowly, so you have a chance to tell him to stop. His heat is white hot. Your chest feels hollow and weightless.

Everything about him is hypnotising, the curve of his mouth, his self-assuredness, the look in his eye that’s gentle and intense all at once.

Your body feels heavy; you should probably go to bed soon. “Do you care if I forgive you?”

He frowns, less disappointed, more intrigued and lifts his hand to brush your hair from your neck, fingertips grazing over your skin. Your body stiffens in his wake, like electricity coursing through your shoulders, down your spine.

“I’d hate to have it hanging over my head,” he mutters.

You turn your head and now your faces are inches apart. His nose twitches as he breathes, you notice.

His palm comes to rest on your bare thigh, below the hem of your shorts. In the corner of your eye you see heads of silver hair glancing across the firepit. Aegon chuckles. You’re content to let the distractions fade away. “Keep bringing me coffees and I’ll consider it.”

The next day you’re laying on your bed, enjoying the cool of the early evening against your damp skin and hair after a shower. How you can be so exhausted after a day of reading by the pool makes you despair a little. It’s the heat, it messes with your brain.

The music through your headphones is interrupted by a notification.

Helaena Targaryen: Aemond said he’s off to walk the dogs if you want to join him.

You frown at the screen. Did he want Helaena to ask you? You specifically?

Surprisingly, you were getting on rather well with Aemond today, not enough for him to text you himself, or ask for your number for that matter. At the very least, things have been less hostile since your first encounter. You saw him at breakfast and he asked you how you were getting on with Crime and Punishment, if you had finally realised that it’s the best piece of literature put to the world (his words). You said you were not convinced, only because it was fun to argue about it with him. While you were sitting by the pool he came down in a pair of black trunks and no shirt, swam twenty laps in twenty minutes, then dried off in the lounge chair next to yours. Later, while Helaena was sitting with you, he appeared from the kitchen with two bowls of strawberries with the stems cut off. And then at lunch he sat between Aegon and Daeron, and hardly looked at you.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, painfully conscious that Helaena will be able to see that you’re typing.

Helaena Targaryen: I think it’s part of him ‘making amends’ with you.

Helaena Targaryen: He probably still feels bad about it.

Helaena Targaryen: Loser.

You smile to yourself and type out your reply: Yeah, why not. Where does he want me?

While Helaena starts to type you quickly pull on some shorts and a clean t-shirt. Your phone dings while you’re in front of the mirror, dabbing concealer under your eyes.

Helaena Targaryen: Front door. Five mins. Have fun :) 

It will probably take you five minutes to find your way down to the entrance hall anyway. You finish your face off with some blush on the apples of your cheeks and a thin amount of mascara on your lashes. There’s not much you can do about your wet hair, but other than that you’re mostly satisfied with yourself, so you pull on a pair of trainers, slip your phone into your back pocket and hurry through the corridors of Dragonstone.

He’s waiting for you in the entrance hall by the door, Vhagar, the great dane on one leash, Sunfyre, the golden labrador on another. He gives you a half smile as you approach them.

“Who am I walking?” you say.

“My girl stays with me,” he says, offering you Sunfyre’s leash, which you take, ruffling his ears.

“Vhagar is your girl then, is she?” you ask as Aemond leads you out the door and down the front steps, past the spot where she scared you half to death. The dogs are eager to storm ahead but Aemond keeps Vhagar on a tight lead, so you do the same.

“I suppose. We’ve had great danes forever, my father’s very fond of them. We got Vhagar when I was sixteen and well, we just like each other a lot I guess.” 

“What about Sunfyre?”

“He’s Aegon’s really, but mostly he stays at the Keep with mum and dad. Aegon doesn’t really stay in the same place long enough.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah well, he does what he wants. This way,” Aemond says, nodding towards the downhill path to the beach. You’ve been down here with Helaena already, a winding gravel path lined with bushes and brambles down the cliff face. Vhagar plods along leisurely, Sunfyre can’t get down fast enough. When you stumble, Aemond steadies you, a large hand wrapped around your forearm. “He can run off now anyway,” he mutters, undoing the leash, and Sunfyre darts along the path in a golden flash.

Low in the sky, you see the sun dancing along the surface of the sea, waves rolling orange and blue into white foam as they meet the shore.

“What about you?”

Aemond looks at you with a brief look of bewilderment.

“Are you not doing what you want?”

He tries to conceal a frown, pouting his lips slightly. “Maybe I did for a bit, wound up working for Targ Corp, so I don’t see what difference any of it made.”

Once you reach the sand and Sunfyre is sniffing at some rocks along the base of the cliff, Aemond looks at you. “Are you alright if I take her off the leash?”

Vhagar looks pleadingly up at her owner, her tail thrumming against the ground.

“Yeah, of course,” you say.

“I just didn't know if you’d be comfortable after…”

“Oh,” you say, “thanks for considering it, but yes, it’s more than fine.”

Aemond grins as he undoes the clasp connecting the lead to Vhagar’s collar.

“What?” you ask.

“Does that mean you forgive me now?”

You fold your arms, your cheeks straining as you try to withhold the extent of your smile. “You do make a good coffee, I’ll give you that.”

Sunfyre and Vhagar entertain themselves, chasing each other, running to the edge of the water where the waves rush over the sand and retreat again. You and Aemond walk along the shore where the sand is damp and stable. Aemond says the tide will be coming in within the hour.

“So why work for Targ Corp if you don’t want to?” you ask him. 

Aemond contemplates this for a moment, making a low humming noise in his throat. “If I really didn’t want to, I wouldn't.”

“But if Aegon gets to do what he wants, why don’t you?”

He looks down at his shoes, white sneakers, and digs his hands into the pocket of his joggers. “I remember thinking when I finished my bachelor’s, there were lots of things I was good at.”

You make a teasing face.

“No, I just mean there’s lots of things I could have done. I thought about being a curator, or something, you know? I did my dissertation on that actually, how museums and exhibitions can distort the past as well as preserve it–” he interrupts himself with a short tut. “Sorry, I don’t need to bore you.”

Your eyes trail along the curve of his jaw and his chin in the fading light. The wind is gentle, whispering over the bare skin of your cheeks, your arms, your legs. The smell of sea salt lingers in your nose and on your tongue. “I’m not bored,” you say.

With a shy sort of smile he tells you more, how he used to spend hours in the museums in Oldtown, looking at exhibits on Dorne, Essos and Valyria, the papers he read, the cultural memory and the dissonance. “History and heritage, when you think about them, are inherently vague concepts,” he says, “because they’re all based on claims and narratives that are difficult to determine and if they are clear cut, they’re biased. So how do we find the truth? How do we know that what we’re claiming is the right story is actually accurate?” You find yourself watching the parts of him you usually do. He speaks with his hands, indicating and gesturing and moving them randomly when he’s trying to think of a word or explain himself. Occasionally he runs his fingers through his hair or rubs his chin. And his single eye is wide, looking up as he pieces together a thought, looking back to you so he knows you’re still listening. 

“But after all that, you went and trained to be an accountant?” you ask.

“You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him I wanted to do a masters in museum studies. So yeah, accounting it was.”

It makes you sad, but you don’t want to tell him that. The entire time you’ve been here you’ve never seen Aemond so animated, talking about something he seems to love.

“What about you? What are your big life plans?” he says.

“Anything but accounting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.”

“I’ll do a masters eventually, but I want to work for a little bit. I’ll start applying for jobs when I’m home.”

“In King’s Landing?”

“Yeah.” You look back up at the dark stone of the cliff, the layers and straight lines, the tops of the castle’s turrets just visible from the shore. “Yeah, yeah I think there’s so much pressure to find something to do. I mean, I was trying to focus on my dissertation and my exams, and I kept having these weird moments where I’d think, what’s the point? I don’t have a job ready to go. I don’t have a place on a masters course. I don’t have any plans to travel or volunteer at an orphanage in Meereen. It was like there was a timer going off in my brain and if I didn’t make something of my life before my exams were over, well it was all going to be a waste.” Now you’re the one moving your hands mindlessly, and you don’t know why but saying it all out loud makes you nervous. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time.”

You look back at Aemond and realise you’ve stopped walking. Somewhere along the beach the dogs bark and splash in the shallowest part of the water. Aemond is watching you. He still has his hands in his pockets, his lips curled into a vague smile. “You have plenty of time, don’t worry,” he says. 

It suddenly strikes you what Alicent had mentioned, about him moving back to King’s Landing.

Without stepping away from him you take a mental note of him, your eyes glancing up and down. You want to remember his silhouette, his posture and how he stands, the way he angles his chin, the way he likes to hold his hands behind his back, the joggers and the shape of his torso though his t-shirt. You think you could recognise him at a brief glance, a single body in a crowded city. You think you’d find him.

Aemond meets your eye and raises his brow. 

You smile slightly to fein innocent interest. “We’ll be neighbours, we might see each other wandering around the city.”

But you realise you’ve made a mistake. His amusement starts to fade from his face, his shoulders stiffening. He turns and puts his middle finger and thumb in his mouth to whistle the dogs. They both freeze and bound back towards you. “Tide will be coming in soon,” he says to you.

He has Vhagar and Sunfyre on their leads again. By the time you come back to the path on the cliff the sky is a dull shade of dark blue. The castle looms in darkness and the light comes from within, golden through all of its windows.

“I’m sorry if I was a bit of a downer,” you say.

“You’re fine,” Aemond says. Your steps sound in perfect time along the gravel, up to the front steps. Vhagar and Sunfyre huff and pant, pulling on their leads and eager for a rest.

You reach the door and Aemond opens it. Down the hall one of the butlers is waiting to take the dogs.

“It’s just, I thought we were getting on.”

“We are,” Aemond mutters. “Do you think we are?”

It’s hard to tell with Aemond. He’s polite when he needs to be, easily irritated around his siblings. He’s so calm and composed, but you can see it in his eye when he’s thinking– you just don’t know what. But then there are moments like this, when you think you’ve scratched the surface, when his gaze lingers on you and his eye is soft but intent. When he brings you a coffee in the morning, when he tells you about his favourite book and the things he wishes he’d done with his life.

You’re standing in the entrance hall. Dragonstone is alive, filled with people and distant sounds. Beyond the ancient walls the wind picks up and the tide is coming in. If you took one step closer to Aemond, your navel would be pressed against his.

“I want us to get on,” you say.

“Me too.”

“And I thought we were getting somewhere.”

“Maybe we are,” he says. “I liked this, you’re a good listener.”

“I don’t get that a lot.”

“Do you not?”

“Well I suppose it helps if the person speaking has something interesting to say.”

“Oh,” he says with a little nod, “I thought you were going to say you just liked me that much.”

“That helps too.”

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[moonlight-joy]

Bound by Fire

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: Bound by duty but strengthened by growing trust, your arranged marriage to Jacaerys Velaryon transforms into a partnership built on mutual respect and shared hopes, setting the foundation for a powerful union that promises to shape the future of the realm.

Pairing: Reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

The war had been long and bloody, stretching across the realm and leaving scars that would take generations to heal. Your family, one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, had played a pivotal role in ensuring victory. The cost of that alliance, however, had been a personal one: your hand in marriage to Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne. Though you had agreed to the arrangement, it had always felt like a distant reality, overshadowed by the immediacy of the battlefield and the weight of your family’s duty. But now, with the war won and Rhaenyra Targaryen crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the time had come to honor that promise. You were summoned to Dragonstone, where your future awaited.

The sea air was cold as your ship approached Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. The volcanic island loomed on the horizon, its jagged cliffs and smoking peaks a stark contrast to the lush lands of your home. Dragons circled overhead, their cries echoing across the water, a reminder of the power you were about to marry into. Your heart raced as the ship docked, and you stepped onto the stone pier. The sight of the Targaryen banners fluttering in the wind filled you with a mixture of awe and trepidation. This was no mere union—it was the joining of fire and blood, of two legacies that would shape the realm’s future.

Waiting for you at the foot of the castle steps was Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. You had seen his likeness in portraits, but they did little justice to the man standing before you. His dark hair, streaked faintly with silver, framed a face both handsome and serious. His brown eyes, warm yet guarded, met yours with an intensity that made you catch your breath. “My lady,” he greeted, his voice steady but soft. He stepped forward, offering his hand. “Welcome to Dragonstone.”

You hesitated for only a moment before placing your hand in his. “My prince,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “It is an honor to finally meet you.” His lips quirked into a faint smile, and you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t expected: curiosity. There was kindness in his eyes, tempered by the weight of his responsibilities, and you wondered if he felt the same mixture of hope and uncertainty that you did.

Jacaerys escorted you into the castle, the halls lit by flickering torches and warmed by the ever-present heat of the volcanic rock beneath your feet. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and salt, a reminder of the dragons that called this place home. “I hope the journey was not too harsh,” he said, breaking the silence as you walked. “It was long,” you admitted, glancing at him, “but it gave me time to reflect on what lies ahead.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “And what do you see when you reflect?” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “A future that is both daunting and full of possibility. Our union will shape the realm, for better or worse.” His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade. “I believe it will be for the better,” he said quietly. “I know the circumstances of our marriage are not ideal, but I promise to honor and respect the alliance we forge together.” The sincerity in his voice surprised you, and you found yourself softening. “I believe we can build something strong, my prince. Perhaps even something good.” He smiled then, a genuine expression that lit up his face. “Jace,” he corrected. “If we are to share a life, you should call me Jace.” “Jace,” you echoed, the name unfamiliar on your tongue but not unpleasant. “And you may call me whatever you wish.” “Then I shall call you my lady,” he teased gently, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “For now.”

Over the next few days, you and Jace spent more time together, learning about each other in quiet moments stolen from the grandeur of court. He showed you the dragons in the cavernous pit beneath Dragonstone, introducing you to Vermax, his bondmate. The sight of the mighty creature left you awestruck, but Jace’s gentle encouragement gave you the courage to approach. “He can sense your fear,” Jace said, standing close enough that you could feel his warmth. “But he can also sense your strength. Show him that you are unafraid.”

You took a deep breath and stepped closer to the dragon, your heart pounding in your chest. Vermax huffed, a plume of smoke curling from his nostrils, but he did not move away. Slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing against the warm scales of his snout. The bond was brief but electric, a reminder of the power you were marrying into. Jace watched with a proud smile. “You’ve impressed him. That is no small feat.” “Perhaps he sensed my strength,” you replied, meeting Jace’s gaze with a faint smile of your own. “Or perhaps he sensed your stubbornness,” Jace teased, earning a laugh from you. It was in moments like these that you began to see the man beneath the prince—the man who carried the weight of the realm on his shoulders but still found joy in the small, fleeting moments.

On the eve of your wedding, Jace found you standing on the balcony overlooking the sea. The moonlight bathed the water in silver, and the sound of the waves was a soothing balm to your restless thoughts. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice soft as he joined you. You shook your head. “Too much on my mind.” He stood beside you, his presence steady and comforting. “I wanted to thank you,” he said after a moment. “For trusting in this union. For trusting in me.”

“I suppose I had little choice,” you replied lightly, though there was no malice in your tone. He turned to you, his expression earnest. “You had every choice. You could have refused, and no one would have blamed you. But you didn’t. That means something to me.” His words, so genuine and heartfelt, stirred something deep within you. “I trusted in the vision my family had for the future,” you admitted. “But now, I find that I trust in you.” Jace smiled, and for the first time, you saw not just a prince or a warrior, but a partner. “Then let us trust in each other,” he said. “Together, we can build something lasting. Something worth fighting for.” You nodded, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Together,” you agreed.

As the waves crashed below and the dragons roared in the distance, you felt the beginnings of a bond that would shape not just your lives but the fate of the realm. Bound by fire and blood, you and Jace were poised to forge a legacy that would endure for generations to come.

[httpvomitello]

Hi! Could I request a George Weasley x Slytherin reader where they've been dating in secret for a while and they decide that it's time to meet eachother families and George invites her to the burrow for the chritsmas holidays but the Weasley are not very welcoming and she kind of gets the fleur treatment (except Fred because he already knew her) and George defends her when they are rude to her? could it also be fluffy and protective Georgie please?

Hello, hello! I hope you like it ~ ♡♡

A Slytherin Christmas at the Burrow *⁠.⁠✧

george weasley x f!reader

The snow was falling gently outside the window of the Hogwarts library as you packed the last of your books into your bag. Christmas was only a few days away, and your mind buzzed with nervous anticipation. This year, instead of spending the holidays with your family in the austere halls of your ancestral manor, you would be going to the Burrow.

George had invited you a few weeks ago, insisting that it was time for you to meet his family. Though you’d been dating in secret for over a year, you hadn’t dared to take that step. But George, ever confident, had assured you that everything would be fine.

“It’s the holidays,” he had said with his lopsided grin that made your heart skip a beat. “How could they be anything but welcoming?”

Now, as you stood on the Burrow’s crooked porch with George at your side, you weren’t so sure.

“Relax,” George murmured, brushing a reassuring hand against your back. “They’re going to love you.”

The door swung open before you could respond, and Mrs. Weasley stood there, beaming at the sight of her son.

“George! You’re finally here!” she cried, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Hi, Mum,” George said, grinning as he returned the hug. “I brought someone I’d like you all to meet.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes landed on you, and though her smile didn’t falter, there was a flicker of something in her expression—hesitation, perhaps.

“Oh,” she said, stepping back to let you inside. “You must be Y/N.”

You nodded, offering your hand politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” she said, though her tone was a touch cooler than before.

As you stepped inside, the warm, bustling chaos of the Burrow surrounded you. Fred appeared almost immediately, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“There she is!” he said, pulling you into a quick, friendly hug. “Finally, someone to keep George in line.”

You laughed, some of your tension easing. Fred had known about your relationship for months and had been nothing but supportive.

The rest of the introductions were less smooth. Mr. Weasley was polite but distant, while Ginny’s sharp gaze seemed to size you up in an instant. Ron muttered a curt hello before disappearing upstairs, and even Bill and Charlie, who were visiting for the holidays, exchanged skeptical glances. Only Fred seemed genuinely pleased to see you.

Dinner that night was a tense affair. The Weasleys weren’t outright rude, but the subtle barbs and sideways glances were impossible to miss.

“So, Y/N,” Ginny said, her tone overly sweet as she speared a roast potato. “What’s it like being a Slytherin? Do you all sit around plotting world domination, or is that just a rumor?”

George choked on his pumpkin juice, his eyes narrowing. “Ginny, knock it off.”

“What?” Ginny said innocently. “I’m just curious.”

“Being a Slytherin doesn’t mean I agree with everything my housemates do,” you said evenly, though your heart pounded in your chest.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Weasley said, though her tone suggested otherwise.

George’s hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently in reassurance.

The comments didn’t stop there. Every question seemed designed to remind you that you didn’t belong, from Ginny’s digs about your family’s wealth to Ron’s muttered comments about “stuck-up Slytherins.” Even Percy, who had barely looked up from his book, managed to slip in a pointed remark about ambition.

By the time dessert was served, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“Excuse me,” you said quietly, standing and slipping out of the room before anyone could stop you.

You found yourself outside in the snow, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you tried to steady your breathing.

“Y/N.” George’s voice was soft as he appeared beside you, his arms wrapping around you without hesitation. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said, though your voice cracked.

“The hell it isn’t,” George said fiercely. “They had no right to treat you like that.”

You looked up at him, tears welling in your eyes. “I just… I thought they might give me a chance. For your sake.”

George’s jaw tightened, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “They’ll come around. And if they don’t, that’s their loss, not yours. You’re incredible, Y/N. Smart, funny, kind—you’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’m not going to let anyone make you feel less than that. Not even my family.”

“George—”

“No,” he said firmly. “You’ve put up with enough. Come on.”

Before you could protest, he led you back inside. The chatter at the table died as you entered, all eyes turning to you and George.

“I’ve got something to say,” George announced, his voice ringing through the room. “Y/N is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I won’t stand for anyone treating her poorly. I don’t care that she’s a Slytherin, and neither should you. She’s brilliant and brave and a damn sight kinder than any of you have been tonight.”

“George—” Mrs. Weasley began, but he cut her off.

“No, Mum. You always taught us to treat people with respect, to give them a chance. Well, Y/N deserves that. So, either you accept her, or we’ll be spending Christmas somewhere else.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Finally, Fred cleared his throat. “He’s right, you know. Y/N’s great. You lot just need to get over yourselves.”

One by one, the others began to mumble reluctant apologies, and though it wasn’t perfect, it was a start.

George squeezed your hand as you sat back down, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, so quietly that only you could hear.

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his presence, you knew he always would.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Safe Keeping | 7

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."

Sandor Clegane x Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, POV shifts!, forced marriage, smut (piv, emotional sex, praise kink, breeding kink), enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, miscommunication, toxic masculinity, typos, etc.

A/N: YAY WE ACTUALLY FINISHED A SERIES HAHHAH lol. thank you so much to everyone who read safe keeping on here <3 im so luv all of you !! i will be continuing this so HIHHH look forward to it ig 😋 [originally posted on ao3] | [continuation fic on ao3] | [continuation on tumblr]

Tagging: @otteropera @poisonsage808 @glitterandgoldfinds @the-queen-of-sorrows @minttea07 @fluffpudel @j3nn-1 @jelsasnowflakes1 @thestrals-and-firewiskey

We are greeted by a group of men when we arrive at the Alistair dwelling.

Sandor helps me dismount my horse. I thank him, then the stable boy, who takes our rides. Sandor ushers me in and we hand our coats to the servants by the door.

My husband scrutinizes the place, a grave expression on his features as he takes in the halls that were decorated with streamers. As we get deeper into the home, I grab Sandor's arm and carefully word, "remember why we're here."

He turns to me and raises a brow, "and why are we here, darling wife?"

I cannot help the way I react to his words, his term of endearment. I know it is condescending, but my stomach tumbles at the sound of it either way. I look forward, unable to keep his gaze, "we're here to pay out respects to a man that extended generosity to us."

Sandor notices the way my face twitches. He sighs and turns away, "I will not kill the pretty boy. Do not be so upset."

"I'm not upset," I turn to him.

He scoffs under his breath, "what's with the face then?"

"What face?"

"A face fairest in the land, many would say."

Sandor and I stop in our tracks.

My brows raise and I break into a chuckle of disbelief and surprise. The man who had spoken smirks as I greet him, "Lord Baelish."

Sandor feels his blood boil when the Littlefinger bows and reaches out a hand. He tightens his grip on me.

I turn to Sandor, noticing how darkly he was eyeing Petyr, and decide to let out a laugh to ease the tension, "there be no need for such formalities, Petyr."

Petyr straightens up, lowering his hand, maintaining his smirk.

Sandor's lips twitch as he grumbles slowly himself, "Petyr."

"I am glad we're past that, my dear," Petyr says before Sandor tugs me by the arm behind him as he steps forward.

The shorter man looks up and the taller one snorts. I manage to pull my arm away, coming in between them. I nervously laugh and elbow Sandor back, not that it does anything, "if you'll excuse us, we must speak to the man on the hour."

Petyr looks back at me, unfazed and still smirking, "of course. But I do I hope, for your sake, you spare me a moment after. I have something rather important to talk to you about."

"About what?!" Sandor bark. I feel the tension of his form when he presses nearer, flush against my back, to impose upon the lord.

Lord Baelish doesn't spare the Hound a glance, "why, about the monsters plaguing your ancestral home." 

My lips part.

The blue eyed man raises a brow, "you've long wished to be safe from this peril, yes?" he bows, "I believe I have a solution for you."

Before I could even think, Petyr straightens up and smirks as he walks away.

I hear the Hound whisper behind me, "I'll fucking kill him instead."

Before I could respond, a voice calls out to me. I turn and see it is Lord Alistair, making his way over.

He jogs up to me with an excited expression and reaches out a hand. I smile back at him and take it out of instinct. When he is close enough, Cedric kisses my knuckles.

The Hound did not realize this had happened up until he tore his gaze from damned Littlefinger. When he notices Alistair, he nearly breaks his teeth from clenching his jaw so tight.

"I am happy to see you, my lady," Cedric nods with a lopsided smile.

Before the Hound can react, the pretty boy is speaking again.

"And you, my lord," he nods to Sandor.

"I don't share the sentiment," the Hound growls through a strangled breath.

Cedric laughs. He places a hand on his chest as he does, then motions, "forgive me. You must be famished from your travels," he looks to his right then back to us, "please. My servants have prepared my favorite dishes. Help yourself and make merry."

"I'll be merry if I fuc--

"THANK YOU, MY LORD!" I cut off with a massive grin. I curtsy and chuckle, mustering all the sincerity I had, praying it overshadowed my jitters, "may you always be so generous and joyous on your nameday."

Cedric chuckles and waves me off, "please. Spare me the formalities. I pray you go and eat with your husband before he kills someone."

Lord Alistair is the only one that laughs at the joke. A few delayed seconds later, I manage to laugh with him, forcing down my agitation.

Sandor doesn't budge the first time I tug on his arm. He follows after the fourth. He eyes Cedric as we walk away, but the said man is already preoccupied with another guest to notice.

"I don't think this is a good idea," I whimper under my breath as I quite literally run after the buzzing Hound.

Sandor makes his way down the hall in a break neck speed, at least for me. I have to catch my breath when we enter the weapons room. I heave and look around the foreign place, eyeing the axes, the arrows, the swords, and the armor displayed all over.

"Your pretty boy has good taste," Sandor slurs as he grabs a sword mounted on the wall, knocking over a few others as he did.

I cringe at the clank of steel against ground and step back when Sandor begins to wave his blade around. I mumble, "he's not my pretty boy."

Sandor continues to swing the sword. I pull my head back in agitation.

He then picks up the fallen swords but cannot manage to put them back in their place without moving shakily, and dropping a few.

I panic and press my back against the wall, "my love, this is a horrible idea!"

Sandor stops and turns to me, "how is it horrible? Lord Alistair wanted a sword fight with me, and that's what he's gonna get. He chose this nameday gift, not I."

I watch as he finally manages to put away the swords.

"You were there, my jittery bride."

I straighten up and slowly walk towards him with my palms cautiously raised. Sandor is perfectly still when I come close. I release a sigh of relief when I manage to grab his arms, "please listen. I was also there when you downed three ewers of wine, puppy."

He leans down.

I clench my jaw.

I can feel his breath, smell the alcohol in it, as he mutters, "I'm not a lightweight."

I gasp when he comes low enough to kiss my neck.

My skin pricks when he whispers hotly, "and I'm not a puppy."

My heart is racing when he straightens up. He does so in a rather staggering manner, telling of the effects of his alcohol consumption.

"You're drunk."

"Am not," he rebuts.

I scowl at him, "you're a drunk puppy, my dear."

He smiles, "I thought I was your love?"

My stomach churns.

Sandor purses his lips when I do not respond.

I feel my face prick with heat, "would you listen to me if you knew that I loved you?"

He chuckles, turns his back on me, and heads for the door, "well, do ya?"

I feel like vomiting. I whisper under my breath, "I do."

He reaches for the knob and opens the door, "nice try, beautiful," he reaches a hand out, "come. Maybe your pretty boy will manage to ki-"

"WILL YOU STOP CALLING HIM THAT!" I snap and storm over to him. "Lord Alistair is NOT my pretty boy! He's not mine and will never be!" I feel my blood boil and my eyes begin to fog, "and stop calling me names!"

He pulls his chin back. His face hardens. He opens his mouth to speak but beat him to it before he can say a word.

"Stop mocking me! Stop calling me pretty squirrel! Stop calling me beautiful! It's driving me mad!"

"I'm not mocking you," he speaks lowly, "why would I mock-"

"Well, whatever it is, it needs to come to an end," I point at him, "now let's get this over with. I want to go home."

I storm off and head outside.

I make my way to the back of the Alistair dwelling, which had a large field where the sword fighting will be held.

I stand by the crowd of people and sigh through my nostrils. I watch as Lord Alistair does tricks with his sword, enticing the crowd to laugh and cheer for him.

I feel out of place in my spot because I didn't know anyone else, and because was not at all entertained by the spectacle. All I thought of was how badly I wished this to be over. Damn my drunken husband for agreeing to this.

"Trouble in paradise?"

I turn over and find the smile of Lord Baelish. I release another sigh, "please. Not anymore, Petyr."

Petyr chuckles and shrugs, "I've barely said a word, my dear."

His term of endearment triggers my vexation. I cannot help the way I roll my eyes at him.

He laughs harder, "what darling reaction."

I move away from him.

He steps closer, "did you know there are necromancers in Volantis?"

I glare at him just to look away again.

He gives me a smirk, "they are learned of tar monsters who enjoy eating village folk."

I turn back to him.

He nudges me with his elbow and turns front, "I've put in good word for you. All you have to do is take a ship to Essos. A witch there will get rid of your problems for you at a fair price."

"Hmm," I raise a brow, "oh, undoubtedly. It clearly is that simple."

Petyr turns to me, "it certainly is. Once the woodland monsters are gone, you'll be able to hunt and gather timber from the forest again," he nods his head, "and so will I."

Aha. I purse my lips and debate his words for a moment.

"And I trust you will allow me to fish in the Sterling River as well."

I look forward when the crowd cheers. I see before me, Lord Clegane and Lord Alistair, circling each other, the latter laughing in excitement, the former blank faced and stern. I turn back to Petyr, "very well."

He nods once more.

I look straight again.

"Perhaps a trip to Volantis is exactly what the loving couple need."

I roll my eyes at him.

Sandor and Cedric begin to tussle. The sound of steel biting steel fills the air. Cedric is an eager opponent, pressing forward every chance he gets. Sandor is relaxed and playing the defensive.

This continues for a while, metal clashing, boots skidding, voices grunting, and it was a rather showy match, at least on Cedric's end. Sandor is barely trying, I could tell. He must be conserving his energy. I've seen the way he's trained with the boys in Brown Wood. He's definitely trying to tire Cedric out.

"This is going to be a long match," Petyr whispers to me.

I turn to him and sigh, "a very long one."

Sandor catches this and feels his lips twitch. He turns back to Cedric.

I gasp when Cedric manages to disarm Sandor. The crowds gasp as well, and Cedric too seems surprised.

Sandor shakes his head, " 'm too fucking drunk for this."

Cedric straightens from his defensive stance.

Sandor nods, "well met."

Lord Alistair nods back, smiles, and turns about to bask in his victory.

As he bows to his guests, the Hound makes a beeline towards me. I watch as he comes close, my heart slowly speeds.

He grabs my arm, "we're leaving."

"Oh!" Cedric calls and gestures our way "a round of applause for the Hound."

The guests turn and cheer for him.

Sandor pulls me to his side.

"Come now," Petyr smirks, "won't you even try to best Lord Alistair in another round?"

Sandor leans down towards Lord Baelish and growls, "fuck off."

With that, I am dragged away.

"Sandor."

The Hound's horse continues treading in front of me.

"Sandor."

The Hound still does not stop, turn, or respond.

"Sandor!" I say louder.

Still nothing. 

I make the horse I was riding gallop to his side. He had not spoken to me the whole way back, not when we got on our horses, not when we stopped at an inn for the night, not when we started our journey, and not now that we near the gates of Brown Wood.

"Have you chosen never to speak to me again?" I quip, tightening my grip on my reins. When he looks the opposite direction from me, I scoff and roll my eyes, "should it not be I that never speaks to you, Hound? You've been nothing but insufferable the entire time we were at the feast!"

Sandor still does not budge.

I look forward and catch sight of Brown Wood. I give my horrible husband one last glare before growling and galloping away.

Sandor watches this. He does no effort to follow after.

When I get to the gates, I am immediately greeted by many servants. Polly, in particular, excitedly tells me he's taught the puppies tricks, and quickly leads my horse away after I dismount, keen to tell me more about it.

Lucy, though happy to see me, raised a brow at my missing chaperone, "did you lose your Hound, milady?"

I roll my eyes, "do not speak to me of that beast."

Lucy is bewildered.

I sigh and slump forward, regretting the harshness of my words. I shake my head, "have you prepared a bath for me?"

She knits her brows and nods slowly, "....did something happen at the feast?"

"Of course something happened," I muttered, "the gods are truly testing me." I brush Lucy's arm, "I will tell you more of it later. For now, I need a warm bath."

Lucy nods again and watches me walk off.

Before Polly could follow after, Lucy hooks her fingers into his collar, holding him back. The boy makes a choking sound, stops and turns, staring at Lucy.

"Our lady will not be bothered," she says.

"But the puppies!"

"Later," she pulls her hand away, "go finish your chores if you still have some, boy."

Polly makes a face and grumbles, though he does listen.

Just then, Lucy turns and sees the Hound walking towards the gates, leading his stead by the reins. She waits for him to enter, and the moment he does, she runs her mouth.

"Are ye not tired of playing this game?"

The Hound squints but spares Lucy no glance. He heads for the stables and undoes the ties on his horse.

Lucy flares as she follows after him, "can't you just do us all a favor and stop?"

"I'm not in the mood for nagging, wench."

"Then admit it!"

"Fuckin' what?!" he glares at her.

"That you're mad about your wife!" Lucy snaps.

Sandor stills.

"That you would die for her! That you're upset she wanted to go to another lord's nameday celebration!"

He removes his horse's saddle, "that was a formality."

"YOU'RE A FUCKIN' FOOL!"

Sandor whips his head to her.

"And a coward," Lucy raises a finger.

The Hound chucks the undone saddle to the side and steps forward. He looks down at Lucy, but she is unbothered and unafraid. He is shocked when she shoves him. He topples back.

"She's only ever wanted your love, you thickheaded oaf! Don't you see how hard she tries to please ya?!"

"Please me?" Sandor scoffs, taking another step forward.

"YES!" Lucy shouts, "she wants to be your perfect bride but you know nothing but cruelty. You repay 'er with bitterness."

The Hound feels his mouth sour.

"And puppies."

Sandor watches her wipe her face.

"Because you're not as cruel as you make yourself out to be, milord," Lucy says with frustration.

Sandor feels like the wind was knocked out of his lungs.

"I've caught you when you think no one's looking," she speaks softly, "you love her."

Sandor feels his body burn.

"She loves you."

"She d-"

"Fix it before it gets worse. I beg," she sighs.

The Hound is stunned as the maid walks off.

When Polly spots him, the boy unknowingly grates his nerves as he leads the puppies over and shows all the tricks he's taught them. It wasn't much, in all honesty, just a 'stop' and a 'come here', but the three pups did them well.

Sandor couldn't be impressed, he was far too out of it to be anything but queasy.

He tells Polly he's tired and heads to the bedroom. Polly tells him he wants to show Lady Clegane the tricks before they sleep. He doesn't answer the boy. 

Sandor is both disappointed and relieved to find the room empty. His head is heavy as he changes. He feels like he'd sink to the bottom as he goes to bed.

The Hound had been pacing around when I got to the bedroom. He froze when I entered and awkwardly walked back as I headed for the bed.

I didn't speak a word as I went under the covers and laid down. I eyed him as he sat on the edge on the other side, back turned to me. I burn holes into his back with my glare.

It takes a few seconds of him rubbing his lap and him sighing loudly before he breaks his silence.

"I..." he trails off.

I shift in my spot to look at him.

He straightens, "I didn't like the fact that pret-" he cuts himself off and sighs, "that Lord Alistair and Lord Baelish were all over you."

I can't help but scoff, "and you've decided not to speak to me because of some two men's doing?"

"I DIDN'T want to fight," he blurts loudly then softly. 

I watch as he slouches and moves on his side to bring himself under the sheets. He sighs as he covers himself and speaks without looking at me, "I don't like fighting you."

I purse my lips at the thought. His words conflict me. I find it aggravating to hear when it felt like he liked the opposite. A side of me is also unwilling to believe it because it was too hard to believe.

The part of me that was still angry at him for being so petty wants to fight back with equal pettiness. But an even larger part of me felt too exhausted and defeated to argue.

"And yet you always do," I speak plainly as I turn my back on him and fluff my pillow. I take in a deep breath while bringing the sheets over my shoulder. I lay down, facing away from him.

I knew he wouldn't have anything to say to that truth, and yet I take a moment to listen in on him. He doesn't speak nor move at all.

I close my eyes, "go to sleep, husband. It's been a long day."

"Aren't you upset with me? I don't want you to sleep upset with me."

My eyes open. My stomach churns. Did he actually care? My lips part but I can't find myself to speak.

"I didn't speak to you because I know what I'd've done if I did."

I take in a sharp breath and give out a broken whisper, "you've done worse."

Sandor lets out an airy chuckle. It doesn't sound amused at all though.

He doesn't respond anymore. Instead, he shifts in his spot and lays down, as far on his end as he could be. He is on side, staring at the dark corner of the room. He musters all his courage, "forgive me, my lady."

My lips part.

Did he just say that?

"What?" 

I am shocked when I hear him repeat, "forgive me."

I roll on my back and look at him. I feel like I'm going to vomit. I think my body was shaking.

I inhale deeply through my nose, "what would you have done?"

He takes a moment to respond, "what?"

My courage flees me as I find the need to repeat myself. I turn my back on him again and clutch my chest. I can hear my heart pounding, "what-... you said you didn't speak to me because you knew what you would have done..." 

I feel Sandor shift behind me.

I gulp and curl up tighter into myself.

I wait for him to act but he does nothing.

I release a deep breath before speaking, "would you... have hurt me?"

My skin pricks when I hear him sigh, "aye."

I feel sick to my stomach. How could he admit that so easily? 

I think of all the worse things he could have done: smack me, shove me, slay me. I feel body begin to grow hot.

Sandor stares at the ceiling then turns to his side. His chest tightens yet he manages to mutter, "I only want to be gentle with you."

I scoff but it sounds strangled because of how tight my throat was. My eyes begin to well up. My broken voice croaks, "how could you say that?!"

The Hound says nothing.

"What?" I scoff, "you hit me then you tend my wounds?"

He doesn't say a word.

I begin to feel my insides burn.

The longest moment passes.

"How did you want to hurt me?" I snap.

He clenches his jaw then chuckles at himself, "I wanted to make you scream my name as I fucked you against a wall."

My heart leaps into my mouth.

The Hound continues, "I wanted all those fuckers to hear, to know what you were mine, that I was the only one who could do that to you, that I was the only one you'd allow to do that."

My blood runs still.

"The things I'd do to you," he mutters, "you'd be disgusted to know them."

My lips quiver as confusion ripples through me. This was the kind of hurt he wanted to inflict?

"But I want to be gentle," he adds, "I really do."

"Is that why you lied about the pups?" I find myself choking out.

Sandor is taken aback. He also hates how apparent the sound of sadness was.

"I know you were the one that found them and brought them home, not Lucy," I whisper.

"Lucy," he sighs, "she loves you so much, that Lucy. And you love her... You'd take a gift from someone you love."

I shake my head, "that's why you lied? You didn't think I would keep them if they were from you?"

"I didn't want to shroud the pups with my being."

"... I can love more people than just Lucy."

I feel him shift behind me.

My heart thunders in my chest.

"One day... maybe I'll be gentle enough for you to love me."

I feel tears rush down my eyes. I move to turn to him, but then his arm comes around me and holds me back.

"Please," his voice breaks, "I can't stand to see you cry or look at me with pity."

My hand comes atop his arm, "Sandor-"

"Can I kiss you?"

My breath catches in my throat.

His heavy breathing makes my entire body burn.

I slowly nod and manage to squeak out a yes.

Sandor immediately sinks his face into my neck and begins to kiss my skin. His lips were hungry and his beard left scratches all over. He snakes his arm tighter around me and pulls me into his chest. My entire body reacts to him, it burns and pricks and pulses. He kisses my cheek; he kisses my tears away.

My belly tumbles when he rubs it. He props himself up on his other arm, "I'll die a happy man to see you love my babe," he trails kisses up my jaw to my ear, "it's more than I'll ever deserve."

I suck in a deep breath and lean into his touch. I press my body flush against his and this elicits a groan from him. He fists my nightgown into his hand and nips my lobe. He draws in deep breaths and sighs against my ear, "I can be gentle. I can be so gentle."

I take his fist and he immediately releases my clothes. His breathing grows more strangled as he shifts behind me. 

I push his hand down and he shudders when it comes in contact with my thighs. I release his hand and bring my leg atop of his. I pull my skirt up and mumble, "gentle."

"Fucking gods," he kisses my shoulder and pulls my gown up. He rubs my thigh a few times then sinks his hand underneath my smallclothes.

He shushes me as I grow rigid against him and kisses my neck some more.

I whimper when he pulls my undergarments down and moves his fingers into my soft spot. He very much so gently touches me until I begin to melt against him. I arch my back and lean into him.

"Good girl," he mutters, "such a good girl. My beautiful girl."

"More please," I heave.

Sandor presses his body against mine, "don't have to tell me twice."

I whine his name when he sinks a finger into me. My toes curl and my hand grabs onto his bicep.

I make a sound when he pushes deeper, and an even throatier one when he adds another finger.

Sandor brushes my hair away with his other hand then sinks his face into the crook of my neck. He peppers kisses on my skin and my body burns all the more because of it. I turn my face to him and move my mouth close to his.

Flames rage inside my belly when our lips meet.

He goes still for a second when I kiss him. It takes a few moments before his lips move against mine. Though his beard was tickling my skin, the exchange was lovely. It was warm. It was right.

I bring the hand I had on his arm up to his cheek. My fingers find their way to his scalp where I begin to tug his hair gently.

We pull away when I yelp at the feel of his hand going back to work. Sandor does not relent his kisses on my cheeks, nose, and eye lids.

"Does it feel good?" he asks in between pecks.

I whimper as I nod.

Sandor sighs and grazes his teeth against my neck, "so good."

I mewl when he begins to pump his fingers faster into me.

"So sweet and soft and beautiful-- so, so beautiful against me."

"Sandor-"

"I want to feel you," he growls under his breath, "want to be inside you," he nips my lobe again, "want to fill you up, give you the babe you want."

I nod and chase after his lips. I kiss him desperately, "please."

It's not long until his fingers are replaced by his cock. We both tense against each other then slowly relax and reconnect our mouths.

I am surprised when I feel his tongue brush against my lips. I squeak when he begins to buck his hips into me at a slow but purposeful pace.

He presses his fingers into my inner thigh, pulling that leg closer towards him. I bring my hand down to his forearm and grip him for dear life. He pushes his chest into my back and breaks our kiss to allow us both a breath.

Sandor maneuvers himself into a better position. He nearly has me sprawled on top of him. He locks his grip on my hips and snaps into me with all that he's got.

He calls my name. He calls me beautiful. He calls me his wife. He tells me he loves me.

It's all too much that my eyes begin to water and my belly begins to tighten.

Though his movements were wild and sharp, and though the sound we were both making were loud and lewd, there was something sacred about it, something sincere.

I nearly sob when I come undone. I cry out his name as I feel intense pleasure crash all over my body. My mind is too misty to take into account that Sandor had been repeating the same three words as he too fell into bliss.

He doesn't immediately stop moving. He only does so when I'm laid back on my side again.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel him shift away from me.

"Don't pull away!" I snap. I grab his arm and wrap it around me, trapping it between my own. I lean back into him, "don't leave me! You keep leaving me."

Sandor, who was just catching his breath, feels like he was winded all over again. He thinks about the discomfort that this position will bring, but he figures sex just leaves people emotional and clingy sometimes.

He kisses my cheek, "we'll stay like this, if that's what you want."

I nod enthusiastically and turn to kiss him.

When I do however, he pulls his face back. It makes me go rigid.

It takes a second for Sandor to realize what he did. He is now overly conscious of the scar on his face and the damned reflex he has for it. He opens his mouth but he doesn't say anything.

I begin to feel my face burn and yet I'm too stunned to move.

The next moment, we speak at the same time then immediately go silent.

I gulp and turn away from him, bursting out as I did, "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to overstep."

"You did nothing wrong." he shakes his head.

"You asked if you could kiss me," I mumble, "I didn't do the same."

"You can do whatever you want with me-"

"Sandor-"

"-I belong to you. I am your hound. That's all I am."

My eyes glass at his words. I feel him kiss my nape. My skin pricks when he rubs his hand down my belly.

He sighs heavily, "... sorry for being so broken."

I screw my eyes shut.

"... you can kiss me... if you really want to."

I nearly break my neck turning it back so quick. I press my face against his and just remain like this for a moment. I brush my nose against his textured skin and recall the time I did the same during our wedding night. He pulled away then, he pulled away now.

"I'm sorry you can't trust me," I whisper.

Sandor doesn't have the time to react to that.

I leave about a hundred kisses on his scar before my neck begins to tire. I knit my brows and whisper again, "don't let me go."

I face front and feel sleepiness catch up with me.

"Good night, Sandor."

I vaguely hear him whisper I love you behind me.

Sandor woke up with sunshine shining down his face. He was more than well-rested. He honestly doesn't remember the last time he slept this good.

He stretches in bed and groans. It takes him three seconds to realize he was alone.

It's almost enough to make him shoot upright in panic. The only reason he doesn't is because he quickly thinks it was fucking stupid of him to feel anything, any sort of panic or worry-- worse, hurt or sadness for waking up alone.

He did that many times over, left her alone-- too many times to count, surely more times than the good night's of sleep he's had.

So, he lays there with a stone-heavy pit of emptiness in the middle of his rib cage. There was nothing else to do with it crushing his chest. No amount of reasoning, of rational explanations that his wife was the lady of Brown Wood, who was always busy, who was always attending many other people, nothing could lift the stone weighing down on his chest.

He feels like he's slowly choking.

The Hound only gets up when he hears the small barks of the pups coming from outside. Somehow the idea of his wife waking up to attend to the dogs made this ordeal bearable.

He heads to the bathroom first and freshens up.

After, he heads to the living area and tenses when a pair of servant girls greet him good morrow. His lips twitch as he grunts and nods at them. The girls perk up and stare at him for a second as they pass. He vaguely hears them mumbling 'did he just greet us back?' as they each head their way.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. He should have said good morrow in return. Fuck. 

It probably doesn't matter. He's been ignoring everyone since they've moved here. Why start now?

Well... he was ignoring everyone except Lucy, who vexingly demanded his attention; Daisy, who used to do the same... and his lady.

Sandor opens the front door and steps outside.

His-

"Lady Clegane," Petyr fucking Baelish nods and reaches a hand to his wife.

Sandor is stunned. This wretched, slimy looking Littlefinger-man was up on his stupidly embellished steed, which, mind you, was too big for the fucker, kissing his wife's knuckles a goodbye.

What the fuck was he doing here so fucking early?

Littlefuckingfinger smiles and straightens up as he releases her. His wife waves goodbye.

As she does so, Littlefinger catches sight of Sandor and his smile pulls into a self-satisfied little smirk. He nods his head once to him and fucking rides off. Even fucking Polly waves him goodbye and it makes him want to chase after him and gouge his eyes out.

"Husband."

The Hound averts his gaze.

Sandor's breath is knocked out of his lungs when he sees his wife gleaming at him.

Fuck, she's walking over.

Everything in him is so overwhelmed by her that he nearly steps back.

She holds something in her hands as she gives him a lopsided smile, "you had a good sleep."

He opens his mouth to speak but a lump in his throat stops him. He gulps.

She laughs. She does so with grace, her pretty teeth all bared to him, "I wished to stay with you until you woke, but I could not leave Brown Wood unattended till late in the afternoon."

For a moment, he is in disbelief and doubts it was actually midday. He looks up and sees, indeed, the sun was at its height.

He looks back to her to apologize for sleeping in, but again, his voice is lost to him. By only taking one step towards him, she renders him powerless. She intensifies it by taking his arm and giving him that look, that look of apprehension that was masked in sweetness. It was maddening.

"Will..." she draws a deep breath, "you let me kiss you?"

What the fuck?

Her brows raise. She pulls her hand away, "y-you don't have to."

"Wait-" gods, did he say that aloud? "-no. You can! You can!" he responds with desperation, "you don't even have to ask."

His wife smiles back at him, but it's not the same. 

Gods, he's ruined it again. 

He is surprised when she still leans over and gives his cheek a quick peck.

He barely has time blush as he's turning his head to watch her as she walks past him. She says something about breaking fast and he mutters something incoherent in response.

Sandor doesn't even realizes that he's been made to sit down on the dining table, until one of the pups take his seat before he can.

Where did they even come from?

"Fuck off then," he says, shooing the small thing. It barks loudly and then he realizes it's the loud one, Lilac. He growls, "off, Lilac!"

Lilac makes a smaller sound of protest but has no other choice but to get off the chair when Sandor tips it over.

He quickly sits down and makes a victorious face to the puppies, who continue to bark at him.

He watches as the pups quiet down as his wife comes back holding a bowl of stew and a spoon. His insides tingle when she leans close to him to set it down before him. She then drags a chair and sits next to him.

He takes the spoon.

She smiles at him and rests her head on her hand, her elbow on the table, "eat up."

Sandor releases a breath and does just that, "thank you."

He realizes just how hungry he was at this moment. He begins to pig out.

"Thank you for holding me throughout the night."

The Hound almost gargles his food in his throat trying to muster up a response.

She laughs and touches his arm again, "it's alright. Just eat."

Sandor doesn't have a moment to say that he would hold her until she gets sick of him.

His wife straightens up and pushes a something towards him, a letter, it seems, "Lord Baelish gave this to me."

He nearly chokes as he swallows.

He doesn't like the way his wife smiles when she continues to speak of him, "he's given me a map and letters to aid my passage to Volantis-"

"Volantis?" he sets his spoon down with more force than necessary, "the fuck is in Volantis?"

She straightens up, "remember we met at Lord Alistair's nameday?"

"Fucking Alistair."

She sighs through her nostrils, "Lord Baelish spoke to me then of someone who knows how to get rid of the monsters in the forest."

"Am I not enough for you?" he turns his body to her, "you need to hire some sellsword on the other side of the world to kill those fucks for you?"

He watches her withdraw before his very eyes. She brings her hands together and places them on her lap. She purses her lips into a soft smile before speaking, "there is no one in the world, this side or the other, that I would trust with handling the monsters in battle. But," she sighs, "Lord Baelish didn't speak to me of a sellsword. He spoke of a witch."

"And you fucking trust him?" he quips impatiently, "you'd trust a witch vouched by Littlefinger?"

She sighs again. She no longer finds it in her to pull a smile, "I do-"

"Well, don't."

"-because he'll get something out of it."

The Hound clenches his jaw and rubs his knuckles with his thumbs.

"In return for his help, I would be allowing Petyr to access to our fish, game, and wood."

The Hound sighs heavily, "Petyr.'

She shakes her head and chuckles. She chuckles until she breaks into a genuine laugh, "but matters not. If my lord does not approve then there is nothing more to do."

Sandor's stomach sinks when she stands up.

"I'll go ahead with my errands now," she nods and offers a lopsided smile.

Just before she walks away, Sandor grabs her hand and weakly mutters, "no, please. Please stay."

She laughs softly; she laughs sweetly. She places her palm on his knuckles then takes his hand in both of hers. She kisses the back of his hand and shakes her head, "I am not leaving, my lord, merely going off to do my errands."

The Hound stops her from letting go. He clutches her hands firmly in his larger one. He parts his lips to beg her to stay.

But then, he sees her change. He sees her slip on a mask of a dutiful wife. She is about to smile, about to tell him that if he insists, she will stay, for him. He knew in his bones that she would.

And so he lets her go and looks away in shame. He can't bear to look at her, so he clears his throat and compromises, "I'd like to eat with you later... if you have the time."

It takes a long moment for her to respond. Sandor, whose eyes were stuck to the floor, find the pups were now sleeping under the table.

"I would like that too, my love."

Sandor chuckles drily at the pet name and grabs his spoon. He rather bitterly says, mostly to himself, "you don't have to call me that."

He waits for her to walk away.

She doesn't.

He turns to her when he vaguely hears her mumble something. He waits for her to repeat herself, but she doesn't.

"What was that, pretty squirrel?"

She shakes her head and curtsies, "I said enjoy your food."

He watches her walk off. He wonders what she actually said, because it sure as hell wasn't that. He swirls his stew around idly.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

The Blackwood Knight prt.5

Description: In which Benjicot wishes to inspire his Lady's confidence in his love.

Playlist:

Once Upon a Dream~ Lana Del Rey

Steal My Girl~ One Direction

Call It What You Want~ Taylor Swift

Warnings: female reader. Nothing else I don't think. Just pure fluff.

Y/N tripped towards the Brackentree the next day in high spirits, her heart soaring at the confirmation that her love for her Blackwood knight was requited, turning over in mind the events of the previous afternoon and the memory of Benjicot’s smile as he kissed her hand at the border of the Bracken lands when they parted.

Buoyed by a newfound confidence, the source of which, she could only locate in the weeks she had spent in Benjicot’s company, she was surprised to see the glint of his sword leaning against their empty tree. Confused at the absence of the knight, where his sword was, she placed her hand on the trunk of the tree and began to look around it for signs of when he might have been there. As she leaned around the tree, a hand took hold of her own on the tree trunk and placed something around her finger. Startled, she turned rapidly to see the amused, yet soft smile of Benjicot, still holding her hand in his.

Smiling indulgently at him, she looked down at her hand in his to see a burnished gold band, encrusted with a deep garnet gem, sparkling on the second finger of her left hand.

Seeing Y/N’s quizzical expression, he pulled her hand gently towards him, raising it to wrap her arm around his neck, before reaching out with his other arm to encircle her waist, closing the distance between them.

“Do you like it?” he asked with a reverential tone.

“It’s beautiful, but why are you giving it to me?”

Chuckling indulgently and lightly pinching her cheek, he opened his palm to hold her face before responding.

“Unless you are planning on lancing me through the heart by renegading on your promise to marry me yesterday, I had hoped that the future Lady Blackwood would like to possess an heirloom of the House she is soon to belong to.”

Looking once again in wonder at the gem on her finger, she looked up at Benjicot with an expression of complete joy, surprising him by reaching up with both hands to encircle his neck in an embrace that lifted her off the ground, as he delightedly caught her and spun her in a circle, increasing speed as she began to laugh.

Reluctantly returning her to the ground, he continued to hold her in her embrace, both arms enclosed around her lower back, as he gaze down at the light of his life.

“If I had known that I would be rewarded with such a response to a small trinket I would have sacked my ancestral halls long before now and demanded you take your pick.”

Laughing at this and swatting at his chest, Y/N beamed up at him.

“It feels as if it is real now. That you really do love me and wish for me to be your lady.”

His face falling slightly at this, he pulled her closer towards his chest, trying to get as close to her as possible.

“It is real. I do love you. I do wish for you to be my lady, most desperately. So much so that I should be most put out if you backed out now,” he returned in a tone that made it sound like a sally, but held a depth of love and a fear that she may be retracting her earlier acquiescence to his proposal.

Smiling softly up at him, and grasping his hand in her now bejewelled hand, she assured him, “I won’t change my mind.”

“I am relieved to hear it” he returned, in a voice that held no mirth in it, his sigh giving away his genuine contentment at her assurance that he was not, in fact, to be lanced through the heart.

Lightening his tone, he continued, “it is of course a relief to be told that I am still for this world.”

“You’re so dramatic, Benji!” she laughed again, swatting at him again, as he sought to conceal from his expression how endearing he found these light touches, so indicative of them were they of her growing confidence in his love. He could also not deny that the lack of force she put into them was very sweet and only serve to strengthen his desire to protect such gentleness.

“Is that so?” he jested, “my lady does not care for my wellbeing then,” he sighed dramatically, turning from her, as if in high sorrow.

“She does not then love me as I love her. Alas, what misery, I shall go forwith and put myself to the sword.”

Grabbing his arm, Y/N looked up at Benji with fear in her eyes, and it was all he could do not to either laugh or kiss her, so concerned did she look by his blatant antics.

Continuing the charade, he moved away from her, with great reluctance.

“Life has lost all meaning for me now, there is nothing to be done. I must depart from it.” He sighed again, with great drama.

Continuing to stride away from her, he began to count in his head, secretly hoping she would stop him, so that he could again take her in his arms and end the game, little expecting her to grab him so abruptly, causing them both to lose their footing.

Turning himself quickly and wrapping his arms around her waist so that he landed on the ground, cushioning her fall onto his chest, he quickly lifted his head to check on her condition.

Raising them both so that he could hold her head and examine her face, checking for any sign of tears or distress that might reveal she had hurt herself, he was relieved to see that she looked confused, but unharmed. That was, before she fixed him with a glare and pushed herself up, away from him.

“You were jesting the whole time, you rogue.”

Pushing himself up with a laugh, he returned, “that may be so, but I cannot be sorry for it, when you so sweetly came to defend my life and then rewarded me by falling into my arms once again.”

Secretly rejoicing at the pink blush rising in her cheeks, he winked at her before leaning towards her to place a chaste kiss on her brow.

Hovering over the place in which he had planted a kiss, conveying all the reverence and admiration he held for her into it, he spoke lowly, and earnestly.

“I do mean what I say, even when I jest with you. It’s essential to me that you love me…that you will let me love you. That you will consent to be mine, as I am most undoubtedly yours.”

At this, he then continued to place small, reverential kisses onto both of her cheeks, both sides of her jaw, and finally on her lips, cupping her face as he did so.

The golden light of the sun cast it’s rays onto the sight of a knight and his lady, lying in a meadow, her head on his chest, as they continued to plan their lives together.

@lovebabe18 @poppyflower-22 @ithilwen-blackwood @spinachtz @lady-callisto @twistytimesandthoughts @abookloverlawyerfan-blog @mymoonempress @drwho-ess

[peachdues]

THE SWEET FAR THING — PROLOGUE

Knight!Kyojuro x Princess!Reader AU

A/N: did I say prologue tomorrow? I meant now. I’m on an angst kick y’all, and I can’t be tamed. Plus, I’m very excited about this one. So enjoy the opening scene to The Sweet Far Thing.

Read the first teasers here and here.

The prologue is a flash-forward to later events in the story. The fic will then pick up in the past, and show how the prologue itself comes to be.

CW: MDNI • mentions of violence/murder • vague reference to non-con • Douma (y’all already KNOW) • this fic will contain heavy explicit content

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom that lived on the edge of ruin.

It was once a grand Empire; a shining beacon of light and prosperity. Its citizens had flourished thanks to the kingdom’s unique position between a lush, mountainous range rife with resources to the north and a vast, shining sea to the south, which gave birth to a booming trade industry. At its head sat the royal family which sired generation after generation of benevolent rulers, beloved by all.

But greed and power are vices that even the most noble of kingdoms cannot evade forever, and soon, the spoils of war came for it.

For a while, the kingdom managed; its isolation meant it could ward off enemy invaders, for a time, and the King did his best to assure his citizenry that there was nothing to fear. And because the Royal Family had always been open and honest with its people, there was no reason to doubt him; life continued on without impediment, as though sons and daughters weren’t being recruited in the dark of night to to die in a field fighting a faceless enemy with an army in the tens of thousands.

But beneath the thin veneer of golden prosperity , the kingdom slowly rotted away until only its bones remained. To save it, a sacrificial lamb had been offered to appease the unbeatable and unrelenting enemy at its doorstep; the Kingdom’s beloved Princess.

You.

And now, you were being offered up once more, only this time it was to the gods or whatever it was that awaited you in the afterworld, which surely better than anything you’d endured here, in the land of the living.

At least it was you who was doing the offering; you supposed there had to be some comfort in your own dignity, no matter how little of it remained.

So there, perched atop the thin circle of stone wall that created an outer barrier around the tallest tower of your toppled castle that separated you from the edge of the world, you paused.

The wind howled and swirled around you, slicing clean through the thin linen of your nightgown, whipping its hem sharply against your shins. You should have felt cold; you should have been trembling, clinging desperately to the crumbling stone ledge against which you now stood, body bowed away from the turret as gravity beckoned you to follow it down.

All that separated you from the rocky ravine hundreds of feet below, were your fingers, loosely curled around the tower’s low wall. There was nothing — no one — to stop you, save yourself, and you had no intention of doing so.

The sudden image of heated ochre eyes narrowed accusingly at you and flame-tinged hair flashed through your mind, a searing comet across your impending night.

Kyojuro.

He would be angry, your Knight. Furious that you’d broken your oath to him — to stay alive.

But that was before; before the gilded paint coating your kingdom peeled back to reveal the rust and ruin below. Before your people had been starved and beaten into submission, pillaged by the forces that marched through the rubbled and ruined halls of the once magnificent castle you’d called home, and impaled your father through his heart with his own flagstaff. Before his body had been left to rot on his family’s ancestral throne, as a reminder of the new order.

Before Prince Douma had plucked the crown from the King’s decaying head and plopped it on his own, declaring himself your kingdom’s savior though it had been his Empire which caused its fall.

Before he’d humiliated and violated you again and again in front of your sworn shields — including the knight who’d held your heart since you were children and unaware of the war raging just beyond your doors.

Besides, you’d endured a dozen and a half of your beloved Knight’s broken promises and half-truths; clung to the hopes he’d sown, like summer dew on grass, only for him to break every single one of them and leave you to reap the consequences.

But you? You’d kept your vows; every single one of them, right up until that very moment.

Behind you there was an urgent scrape of metal against stone, a pounding against the tower door that you’d barricaded to keep your wretched husband’s men at bay, at least long enough for you to clamber awkwardly over the stony bannisters surrounding the turret, as you scrambled toward your last chance at freedom.

You closed your eyes.

Just this once, Kyojuro would have to accept your failure. You’d endured far too many of his.

The image of his eyes — pools of amber ore, warm and safe, flashed through your mind.

You smiled; even here, at the end, he was your greatest source of comfort. And it was because you had the solace of his eyes, the memory of his skin, warm against yours, and of his lips, that you found the courage to answer the wind’s sweet howl of your name.

For all of Kyojuro’s failures, you could never find it in your heart to resent him; not when he’d shown you his love, as conditional as it apparently had been, you’d known it all the same.

To know love and to be loved in return; it was enough, no matter how fleeting it had been.

Your lungs expanded, greedily drawing in as much of the icy air of the early morning dawn as possible, knowing that there would be nothing more to come. If you strained hard enough, you swore you could hear a whisper of your name in the wind, in the precise cadence of his voice.

Lungs stretched to capacity, you paused, reveling in the temporary silence as you rose up high on your toes.

And with a soft exhale, you let your hands fall away from the turret’s ledge.

[kc-writes-sometimes]

Crown and Kin | Chapter Two

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter Two: History

Word Count: 3,524

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella’s world begins to unravel as secrets from her past come to light, forcing her to confront hard truths. As tensions rise and alliances are tested, she finds herself caught between the safety she’s known and the dangerous future that awaits.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

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Daella of King's Landing

The soft murmur of voices tugged at the edge of Daella’s consciousness, pulling her from the grip of a restless sleep. She blinked, the dim light of dawn seeping through the heavy drapes, casting long shadows that cloaked the figures at the far end of the room. Rosalie and Ser Harwin stood close, their faces drawn with worry, the tension between them thick enough to cut.

"He saw her, Rose," Ser Harwin muttered, his voice low and heavy with anxiety. His pacing was restless, his boots making only the faintest whisper against the stone floor. "He knows her name. She can't stay here. It's too dangerous."

"And where would you have me send her?" Rosalie shot back, her voice trembling as she fought to maintain her composure. "She's just a child, Harwin. No title, no lands, no parents—nothing that would warrant a good match with someone worthy, let alone one that would keep her safe."

Daella kept her eyes half-closed, feigning sleep, watching them both through her lashes. Rosalie's appearance was far from her usual pristine self—her strawberry-blonde hair, usually perfectly styled, hung loose and dishevelled, framing her face in a way that made her seem younger, almost fragile. Her pale pink robe, a stark contrast to the confident woman Daella knew, hung loosely on her slender frame. The vibrant green of her eyes seemed duller today, weighed down by worry as she glanced at Daella and whispered, "We are all she has."

Harwin stopped pacing, his expression softening as he pleaded, "Let me take her to Harrenhal. She’d be safe there. Daemon’s already asked if Daella was mine; it could work. Alys wouldn’t begrudge taking care of another child."

Rosalie rolled her eyes, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "I will not let her be raised in a haunted castle with no roof, by a witch!" Her words cut like a knife, and Daella saw Harwin flinch, his jaw tightening at the mention of his ancestral home. Harrenhal’s reputation was well-known—a once-grand fortress now reduced to ruins by dragonfire, a place of whispers and ghosts. Yet, the tales had always intrigued her. She often dreamed of walking its crumbling halls, feeling the history beneath her feet.

Harwin’s voice was softer now, tinged with resignation. "I promised Elyse I’d look after her. She’s my responsibility."

Rosalie stepped closer, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "We both made that promise, Harwin. She’s as much my responsibility as yours." She glanced at Daella, her gaze tender. "Besides, you have responsibilities elsewhere. Daemon will soon return to whatever hole he crawled out of and forget he ever saw her. Daella doesn’t matter to him. Stop worrying, Harwin."

Daella stifled a yawn as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, the room coming into clearer focus. The tension hung in the air like a thick fog. Ser Harwin was leaning against the wall near the door, his broad shoulders slumped under the weight of worry, while Rosalie moved toward Daella, her expression softening into something more familiar.

"What time is it?" Daella asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"It’s time to get up, my dear," Rosalie replied, her voice gentle as she brushed a strand of hair out of Daella’s face, tucking it behind her ear. One of the few vivid memories Daella had of her mother was how she used to play with her hair—brushing, braiding, and twisting it with oils she had or could borrow. Rosalie had taken it upon herself to continue that tradition. Every month, without fail, she applied some kind of oil to Daella’s hair, just as her mother had done. It smelled awful and looked even worse, but Rosalie insisted it was necessary to keep the hair manageable. She always said the women upstairs used it too and that Daella should be thankful they let her borrow it.

"Is Ser Harwin staying to eat with us?" Daella asked, her voice bright with hope as she slid out of bed, the cool stone floor jolting her fully awake.

Harwin offered her a small, wry smile. "I’m afraid not, little flame. I’ve been summoned to explain why I’m missing a helmet from my uniform." He winked, then turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

As he left, the door closing softly behind him, the room seemed quieter, but the tension still lingered like a shadow. Rosalie sighed, her eyes following him before turning back to Daella with a forced smile.

"Come now," she said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. "Let’s get this mane of yours under control."

The sun was high in the sky as Rosalie and Daella walked through the bustling streets. Rosalie rarely took her with her when she went to pick up supplies for the brothel, but after the events of the other night, she seemed unwilling to let Daella out of her sight. Although Daella wasn’t sure why, it seemed that the encounter with Prince Daemon had been blown out of proportion.

"Did you hear what I said, Daella?" Rosalie’s voice cut through her thoughts as she tugged on her arm.

"What? Sorry," Daella replied quickly, snapping back to attention. Rosalie shook her head and pointed at the stall in front of them.

"I asked what you wanted for dinner," she said, motioning to the grey-haired man behind the stall, who was eyeing Daella with mild curiosity. "Fish or pork?"

Daella cocked her head to one side, considering the options. "Pork, I think. Can I look at the stalls?"

"Of course." Daella was already walking away when she heard Rosalie call out after her, "But stay close and keep your hands to yourself!"

The main thoroughfare was alive with activity, the stalls crammed together as if every inch of space were valuable. The royal family’s carriages occasionally rolled down this road, though how they managed it, Daella couldn’t understand. The road was barely wide enough for the throngs of people, let alone carriages. But in the warmer seasons, everyone seemed happier, more willing to spend their hard-earned coin, even if the prices only dropped by a copper or two. A bargain was still a bargain, after all.

As Daella wandered past the colorful stalls, something shiny caught her eye on one of the tables ahead. She approached the old woman manning the stall, her gaze dropping to the jewelry laid out on a soft red cloth—silver rings, gold bracelets, and gems in vibrant hues of red, green, and blue. One piece, in particular, stood out—a necklace half-hidden in a pile, its color darker and more mysterious than anything else around it.

"What is that? It’s beautiful," Daella asked, pointing to the necklace.

The woman pulled it from the pile, the red and black gems glinting in the sunlight. From this angle, the metal appeared silver, though it had looked almost black before. She placed it in front of Daella with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "It’s too expensive for you, my dear."

"I asked what it was, not how much it is," Daella retorted stiffly, turning away with a flick of her hair. She marched off, her braid whipping behind her as she left the old woman to her trinkets.

Continuing down the row of stalls, Daella stopped at a long table covered in books. She picked one up, thumbing through the pages, pausing every so often to trace the inked drawings. The words were a mystery to her, but the pictures told their own stories.

"Ten Thousand Ships," a strong voice said from behind her, startling Daella into slamming the book shut. "Nymeria was certainly a force of nature."

She spun around, nearly colliding with the body bent over her shoulder. Stepping back, Daella looked up into the familiar face of Prince Daemon Targaryen, his silver hair catching the light, his purple eyes fixed on her.

"Who’s Nymeria?" Daella asked, looking down at the book in her hands.

"You should know, you’ve been reading her book," he replied, his brow furrowing as if puzzled by her question.

"I was only looking at the pictures. The words don’t make any sense," Daella admitted, dropping her gaze to the ground, embarrassed.

"You can’t read, can you?" Daemon’s voice held a note of concern, his confusion deepening. It wasn’t uncommon for girls like her to be unable to read—there was no need to learn—but she supposed all noble children were taught from a young age.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I never needed to learn. Rosalie can, I think."

Daemon’s gaze softened as he studied her, as if trying to solve a puzzle. The silence between them grew awkward and heavy.

"What are you doing out here by yourself?" His face wrinkled in annoyance as he looked through the crowd. "I thought my instructions were clear."

"Rosalie and I came out to buy things for dinner. I’m sure she’s around somewhere. She told me not to go far and not to touch anything," Daella said, rising onto her tiptoes to see if she could spot Rosalie in the crowd.

"It seems you’ve broken more than one rule today, little princess," Daemon chuckled, his voice a mixture of amusement and reprimand. He tapped the book cradled in Daella’s arms before reaching into his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, a shiny coin sailed through the air, landing with a clink in the hand of the man behind the table. Swiftly, Daemon tucked the book under one arm and scooped Daella up with the other, pressing her securely against his side.

From this new height, everything seemed so different, so far away. Daemon was tall, taller than Ser Harwin by a good measure. As they retraced Daella’s steps through the crowded streets, she couldn’t resist sticking her tongue out at the jewelry seller who had scolded her earlier. The woman scowled, but it only made Daemon chuckle more, his amusement vibrating through his chest and into Daella.

His silver hair brushed against her cheek as they walked, soft and almost silken. Unable to resist, Daella reached up to play with the ends, marveling at how much softer they felt than her own tangled locks. Softer even than Rosalie’s. Her fingers moved further up, the urge to braid his hair growing irresistible. Carefully, she began to weave a few strands at the base of his neck.

"What are you doing?" Daemon asked, his voice tinged with amusement, though softer now, as if they shared a secret.

"Braiding your hair," Daella replied, her focus wholly on the task at hand, too absorbed to glance up at his face.

"And why is that?" he queried, the hint of a smile in his tone. He sounded different from the stern man she’d met before. Kinder, perhaps. Or maybe just in a better mood.

"Because your hair is soft and pretty. It's prettier than mine, so I think it deserves a braid," Daella answered honestly, her small fingers working diligently. Daemon’s sudden bark of laughter startled her, and she nearly dropped the braid. Determined, she quickly resumed her work, not wanting to ruin the neatness she’d managed. The thin braid she’d fashioned was barely noticeable, hidden among the silver strands as it disappeared beneath his doublet. A small smile tugged at her lips at the thought that he might leave it there, a secret only they would know.

As they turned into a familiar street, Daella’s surroundings snapped her back to reality. "Are you taking me home?" she asked, a thread of apprehension weaving through her voice.

"I am," Daemon’s tone shifted, stern and unyielding. His gaze fixed ahead on the building in front of them. "I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to have a word with your mother." With one fluid motion, he set Daella down on the ground before pushing open the side door to the brothel. The darkness inside suggested that Rosalie had yet to return from the markets.

The room was silent as Daella kicked off her boots and dropped them by the bed. A sudden thought occurred to her. "How did you know where I live?"

Daemon sighed, moving to light a torch on the wall. "King’s Landing may change in many ways, but its bones remain the same. I frequented this place often when I was younger. My brother, too, though he stopped coming after he married Aemma. I’ve only returned once since her passing."

"Oh," Daella murmured, glancing down at the dusty floor. "I’m sorry."

"There’s no need for apologies, sweet girl," Daemon said gently, placing the book on the table before sinking into one of the creaking wooden chairs. "Now, enough of such dreary topics. How about I tell you the tale of Princess Nymeria and her ten thousand ships?"

Daemon’s storytelling must have lulled Daella to sleep, for when she next opened her eyes, the room was bathed in the soft light of the rising moon. She glanced around, searching for any sign that Rosalie had returned, but the room was empty save for the figure slumped at the foot of her bed. Daemon was still there, snoring softly, his back against the footboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent at an angle, his chin resting on his chest.

A mischievous thought struck Daella, and she quietly leaned over the edge of the bed, retrieving one of her black shoes. Taking careful aim, she threw it at Daemon, quickly lying back down and squeezing her eyes shut, feigning sleep.

"I saw that," Daemon’s laughter rumbled through the room, causing a giggle to escape Daella’s lips.

Their laughter was abruptly cut short by the sound of a voice outside the door. Daemon’s expression turned serious as he moved swiftly, positioning himself behind the door, out of view. He pressed a finger to his lips in silent command, drawing his sword with a quiet hiss. Understanding his signal, Daella bundled herself under the blanket, pretending to be asleep.

"Oh, thank the gods," Rosalie’s voice was filled with relief as she rushed through the door, nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste. But before she could reach Daella’s bed, Daemon kicked the door shut with a resounding thud, causing her to whirl around in shock.

"The gods had little to do with it," Daemon said, his voice low as he sheathed his sword and moved past her, reclaiming his seat at the table.

Rosalie’s relief quickly morphed into anger as she turned to face Daemon, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What are you doing here, Daemon?" she demanded, her tone sharp and devoid of any honorifics.

"You forget yourself, Rosalie," Daemon replied, rising from the chair with a deliberate slowness that made his height and presence all the more imposing. He rested his hands on the pommel of his sword, the gesture unmistakably threatening.

Rosalie’s face paled as she backed away, her movements cautious as she made her way around the bed. Her hand brushed against Daella’s hair, smoothing it back from her face as she glanced down at her, her expression a mix of worry and resolve.

"Why are you here, my prince?" Rosalie’s voice was strained, her teeth clenched as she forced out the words.

"Much better," Daemon mocked, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he tilted his head slightly, regarding her with an air of superiority. "I am here because I found Daella wandering the streets. Alone. Again."

"So you decided to kidnap her?" Rosalie snapped, her voice barely concealing the fury simmering beneath the surface.

"I didn’t kidnap her, Rosalie," Daemon corrected with a sigh, shaking his head as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child. "I brought her home. To you and her mother." He paused, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on Rosalie. "Where is Elyse?"

The mention of Daella’s mother sent a jolt of confusion through her. How could he speak of her as if he knew her? Daella’s mother had been gone for years, long before she could remember.

"Why would you think she’s Elyse’s?" Rosalie asked, her voice wavering slightly as she positioned herself between Daemon and Daella, her stance protective.

"It’s not hard to see," Daemon said, pacing slowly, his eyes never leaving Rosalie. "Daella looks exactly like her. Now, where is she? I wish to speak with her." His voice took on a taunting lilt as he called out, "Eeelyyyse, come out, come out, wherever you are."

Rosalie flinched at his words, her eyes darting toward Daella briefly, a flash of pain crossing her features before she forced her expression back to neutrality. "Stop that! You’ll wake the girl," Rosalie scolded, her voice tight with barely suppressed anger. "Elyse died two years ago."

Daemon froze mid-step, his entire demeanor shifting in an instant. A storm of emotions played across his face before he spun around, striding toward Rosalie with an intensity that made the air in the room feel charged. He reached her in two long steps, his hands seizing her arms with a grip that made Rosalie wince. He pinned her against the foot of the bed, his face inches from hers, his voice low and dangerous.

"How old is she? Is she mine?" he growled, his eyes burning with a mixture of fury and desperation.

The sudden violence jolted Daella out of her daze. She bolted upright, heart pounding in her chest, eyes wide as she took in the scene unfolding before her. Everything felt wrong, twisted, as if the world had been upended. The warmth that once surrounded her was gone, replaced by an icy dread that crept into her bones. She couldn’t make sense of what was happening. She didn’t have a father—never had, never needed one. The words echoed in her mind, over and over. Rosalie and Harwin were all she’d ever known.

"Don’t be ridiculous," Rosalie spat, her voice laced with both defiance and fear as she struggled to pry Daemon’s hands off her arms. "Why does it even matter?"

Daemon’s eyes flickered with something dark and dangerous, a shadow that threatened to consume everything in its path. His grip loosened for a moment, only to tighten again as his hands slid up to Rosalie’s throat. His fingers flexed, pressing into her skin as he leaned closer, his breath hot and menacing against her face. "I will not ask again, Rosalie," he whispered, his voice now a lethal calm. "Is. She. Mine?"

The room seemed to shrink around Daella as she watched in horror. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one catching in her throat as the realization began to dawn. Daemon’s face twisted into a cruel sneer as Rosalie, trembling under his grip, finally gave a small, defeated nod.

Everything shattered. The world Daella knew crumbled into dust as the truth—a truth she had never even considered—crashed over her like a wave of ice. She had never thought much about having a father and never needed to. Rosalie had always been there for her, nurturing her, comforting her when she was sick, and celebrating her namedays with whatever small gifts she could find. And there was Ser Harwin—strong, dependable Harwin, who had always been like a father to her. But now, everything was uncertain.

She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t face this—whatever this was. Before Daella knew it, her feet were moving, driven by a desperate need to escape. She leaped from the bed and bolted for the door, not bothering with her robe, a jacket, or even her shoes. The cold night air bit into her skin as she tore through the streets, the sounds of the city barely registering in her mind.

She had to find Ser Harwin. He would know what to do. He would take her away like he had wanted to. The streets blurred as Daella ran, the cobblestones rough and unforgiving under her bare feet. She didn’t care. She needed to reach the guard tower, to feel safe again. But as she rounded the next corner, she skidded to a halt, her breath catching in her throat.

A group of men blocked her path, their laughter dying as they noticed her. Their eyes raked over her, taking in her disheveled hair, the thin nightdress clinging to her skin, her torn and bloodied feet, and the panic in her eyes. One of them, his face marred by pockmarks and a leering grin, stepped forward, his gaze predatory.

"Well, look what we have here," he drawled, his voice thick with malicious glee. "The gods must be smiling on us tonight, lads."

"And what a pretty little thing she is," another man sneered, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that sent a shiver of pure terror down Daella’s spine. "Just the sight of her is making my cock twitch."

Fear clawed at Daella’s insides as the men began to close in, their intentions clear. She stumbled back, her heart hammering in her chest, her mind racing to find an escape. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She was trapped, and the darkness pressed in around her, suffocating, as she faced the monsters that lurked in the night.

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[shesgotthesuninhereyes]

Claim- Aegon II Targaryen x Sibling OC

Aemond's twin has married their older brother, King Aegon. Aleana needs his help on their wedding night and Aemond is incapable of refusing her.

(OC is a nervous, clueless virgin and Aemond is called in, not only to teach her the ways of pleasure but to ensure Aegon behaves himself and handles his bride with care. Slow building smut, blood mentioned during sex, bdsm in the way of verbal commands and power play, kinda gay towards the end but no full on m/m action)

This is my first time putting my writing directly on Tumblr, so let me know if you'd prefer this over an Ao3 link in the future.

Valyrian is in italics and pet names translate to 'sweet', 'my sweet', and 'my queen'

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The knock upon Aemond's door almost startled him, the wedding festivities thundered on in the Great Hall, but he was not expecting company; all of his siblings had retired, Helaena first, escorted through the crowd by their mother, and then Aleana and Aegon shortly after. The king made a loud announcement of his departure, telling the crowd who'd gathered to celebrate that it was time for him to put a babe in his sister's belly. Aemond saw the display for what it was, a mask to disguise his brother's nervousness. 

When the betrothal of his twin sister and elder brother was announced, Aemond was, at first, angry. Aleana deserved worlds better than Aegon, she was a true Targaryen Princess; a proper, intelligent, loving and otherworldly beautiful young woman. She deserved a husband who matched her in kindness and virtue, not a drunken, rough handed, two sided fool, like Aegon. But as the months passed, Aemond had come to approve of the match, realizing that her marrying Aegon was the only way he could guarantee his sweet girl would stay in King's Landing, under his care, as she always had been. 

Aemond was nearly twenty minutes older than Lane. The Maester who'd birthed them said she clung to her mother's womb, refusing to enter the world that, all who knew her acknowledged, was far too dark for her. Everyone in the birthing chamber feared she'd die inside her mother.  She was the first Targaryen to have the ancestral lilac eyes in generations, when she finally arrived, her purple orbs scanned the room wide and unfocused as if she was in shock. The Maester eventually laid the babes in the same cradle, as the two had wailed ceaselessly for hours until their wet nurses stood close enough for the twins thrashing hands to find one another and instantly their cries stopped. From that moment on, their bond was evident, Aemond and Lane were never far from one another. 

All their lives, Aemond had been Lane's fiercest protector and her most influential teacher. He'd been there, watching carefully, as she’d achieved every one of her ‘firsts’. His name had been her first word and they’d held hands as they took their first wobbly steps. She’d ridden behind him in the saddle for her first time on horseback. He'd carried her to the Maester's study the first time she'd fallen and drawn blood, and gone with her to every visit thereafter, in truth, as she quite disliked and feared the old man. He ushered her away and consoled her as she shook and wept when she first saw a knight accidently killed in a jousting run. He'd taught her their ancestral language, rushing daily from his studies to her chambers so he could share all he'd learned. He’d even trained her, in secret, to a level of familiarity with a dagger, which she’d hated and protested ceaselessly against until Aemond gave up. 

All of the firsts and all of the lessons Aemond had shared and bestowed upon his girl did not, to his deepest vehement, stake his claim to her. He'd shared her for as long as he'd had her. The twins were spoken for at birth, Aemond to wed a Higtower cousin from Old Town and Aleana matched with a Valeryon second son. This news was delivered upon the children when their mother found them kissing, innocently, as they played, when they were but seven. Neither of them understood, were old enough to understand, what their betrothal meant, but Aemond recalls they both wept upon hearing the news. 

Aleana's future husband never became the issue Aemond was sure he'd be, but he'd had another to share her with, as Lane, in her perfection, had garnered the affection of Aegon himself from the time she was old enough to show personality. The eldest boy fawned over her, in his own way; showering her with gifts and treats, indulging her in games of hide and seek in the Throne room and his private chambers, sneaking her wine at feasts, asking for her company at every tourney. It was Aegon who'd taken Lane on her first flight on Dragon's back, and whom she still flies with when travel is necessary, as she has no dragon of her own and Sunfyre is significantly smaller than Vhagar, who's size she admits frightens her.

Aemond wed Ceryse Hightower four years ago, his wife gave him twins, a boy and girl, of his own within the first year of their marriage. Aemond liked her well enough, and she him, but it was still Aleana whom he hailed as the Queen of Love and Beauty. The same year Aemond wed, Aleana's betrothed was thrown from his horse on journey to the Reech, he'd died of a broken neck and left Lane's future undecided. Then Viserys died and war broke out, significantly delaying life for all. It was a year ago that Aegon and Helaena's own betrothal finally officially dissolved, their sweet eldest sister‘s oddness had declined further into disturbing day-dreams; glassy eyed, thousand mile stares, and eventually into a haunting silence, which was broken only by whispered ramblings and ear piercing wails. She was tortured and Alicent refused to subject her to married life. His mother had also fought against Aleana's betrothal to Aegon, when it was suggested, but the new King quickly jumped upon his counselors words and sealed the engagement, despite his decrease in shown affection towards their sister in recent years. 

Aegon had discovered brothels and intoxication around the time that Aemond was marrying. As Helaena's already unwell state impeded upon the elder pair's marriage, Aegon had fallen headlong into the nightlife and debauchery that numbed his jealousy and fear as Aemond succeeded in providing Targaryen heirs. As he did so, his interest in his too innocent and too perfect sister had waned. He was never cruel to her, despite the reputation he was earning on the Street of Silk, their relationship had not soured, but they no longer spent time together like they'd enjoyed in their childhood and tween years. Aemond had sent his own lady wife and their children to shelter in Old Town when war came too close to home and had yet to recall them. He was enjoying victory, ruling with his brother and flying on Vhagar and, most importantly, spending his days with his twin as she prepared to wed. 

Tonight, right now, his unworthy brother would be claiming one of his sister's precious first, the most precious first. Aemond had been unable to return Lane's smiles during the feast and the dancing, his tribute to their union had been delivered through clenched teeth and he'd retreated after them to his own chambers to be alone in his seething jealousy. 

A second knock drove Aemond towards the door, he threw it open with a hiss, preparing to admonish whoever disturbed him. Where he expected to find a knight, his sweet twin sister stood in his doorway. Her long hair was free from its braids, damp and brushed smooth. She wore a thick robe with a woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her arms were folded tightly around herself and her eyes were bloodshot and brimmed with tears. “Laney?” his anger shifted to concern and then fury as he continued, “Did he hurt you?” Aemond took Lane's wrist and pulled her into his room. 

Aleana's head shook adamantly but her hand rattled in Aemond's hold. “Tell me” he looked her over, cupping her chin in one hand while the other combed hair away from her face. 

“I went to take a bath, I'm on my way to his chambers now” she whispered, trying to keep her tears from flowing. Her stomach was turning and while she'd scrubbed and brushed and readied herself in every way she knew how, she clung to Aemond feeling utterly unprepared to fulfill her duty. 

“You took a wrong turn” he cooed at her and rubbed his palm over her chilled, goose skinned forearm.

“I'm nervous, Aemond. Scared.” she admitted, one shiny tear leaking from the corner of her eye as she blinked and sighed heavily. Aemond wiped it away with his thumb as he nodded at her. He'd overheard her questioning her septa, prodding the old woman about what was expected of her and how it would feel. It had been bold of her to ask as she was a vision of propriety. The grey crone only dismissed his Princess, telling her she need just lay on her back and spread her thighs apart. He'd contemplated talking with her, but the thought of saying those words to his sister, of picturing her in such a way as he explained it all, had left him red faced, needy and swollen. 

“Aegon will be kind to you-” he started to offer her comfort, if not consolation, as she deserved worship not only kindness, when she interrupted him. 

“Will he be? His whores say he's rough with them, that he throws them about.”

“You've spoken with whores?” Aemond’s eye twitched. 

“I've only heard whispers.” she shook her head in answer, chewing her lip. 

“I don't believe his carelessness will extend to you, doña” he tried to reassure her but as he considered it he began to grimace, what if the whore mongering King was indeed anything but gentle with her. “Our brother is probably face down in his pillow by now anyway” he hoped desperately that it could be true. 

“Aemond” her already timid voice had become a ghost of a whisper. “What if I don't please him, what if he doesn't love me” she choked. 

“Please, that's not possible. Aegon, for all his faults, has always loved you very much.” Aemond stroked her hair, the instinctual act was usually soothing to them both, but offered little comfort to either now. 

“Love me as his wife, Aemond, not as his kid sister, as his wife” her heart rate increased and she dug her nails into her chest, seeking stimulation as she began to panic. “I do not know how to be a wife” she emphasized the last word as a covetous title. Aemond moved towards her and took her assaulting hands in his own, he held them and ran his thumbs along her knuckles as he thought. 

“Lane..” Aemond had suddenly become frustrated. How was he supposed to fix this for her? How could he be her champion on this? “I don't know what you want from me,” he confessed. 

“I need you to come with me.” she blurted, her eyes went wide for a moment and then glistened with relief at having expressed herself fully. 

“What?” he answered her just as quickly.

“I need you there” she huffed. “You're always there.” her lips trembled and her voice cracked. Aleana, upon first knocking on her twin's door, had no idea, truly, of what she expected Aemond to do to relieve her, she'd only known she needed him close. Her need was glaringly obvious now as he asked her what she expected of him. “You’ll take care of me, and you know what I should do. You’re a husband” she added. 

“Laney, please” he groaned, this was tortuous. “I can't come with you” he protested but as he looked down into her face, as her lips parted and she let a few tears fall, his resolve was already breaking. 

“You'd refuse me when I need you?” she pleaded. And his every remaining will shattered. 

“No, doña, I wouldn't” he sighed. Lainey looked up at him and nodded in relief. Aemond left her to find his own robe, he covered his tunic and lounging pants, replaced his retired eyepatch and then took the goblet from his table and tipped it upwards to empty into his mouth. Lane watched him as he moved, swallowing her anxiety as she waited for him. When he finished he took her hand, threw his door open and quickly moved them down the short corridor to the King's chambers. 

“Finally, Laney girl, I was about to come hunt you down-” Aegon's words stopped when his wandering eyes found his brother, as well as his wife, behind the door he'd thrown open upon hearing footfall in the hall. 

“Really, brother?” Aemond answered him, guiding Lane into the room before himself. “Allow me, then, to kill any notions you have of rushing things from here on” the taller, younger brother walked to Aegon's table and poured a glass of wine, which he brought to Lane, who stood awkwardly in the doorway. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Aegon tilted his head as took the twins in. 

“Go lay down, darling, leave your clothes on, drink your wine” Aemond handed Aleana further through the threshold gently as he spoke, the tone of his commands were equal in love to his actions. Aegon watched her as she walked by, she looked at him with shy eyes and he reached out to take her by the hip as she tried to pass. 

He held her gently there, tilting her downturned chin to look at him as he spoke softly to her. “What's wrong, sweet wife?” Aegon could see his sister was frightened. He’d been kind to her during the feast, she’d smiled and they’d danced and whispered sweetly to each other. It seemed the nerves, which he trampled down with false-confidence and wine, were suddenly overtaking his lovely bride. 

Lane didn't answer him, she only looked up at his face, her expression a mix of worry and guilt as Aemond spoke for her. “Your reputation scares our sister. I've come to ensure, my King, that you are on your best behavior” there was a smirk on his lips as he spoke. Aegon looked from Aemond to his new wife. 

“You're afraid of me, Laney?” he sounded wounded. 

“I-” she started to answer but Aemond had closed the gap between them and taken her from Aegon's hold, nudging her, as he'd directed, towards the bed. He snagged her woolen shawl between two fingers and collected its length in his palm as she stepped out of it. Aleana swallowed deeply from her cup as she walked. 

“She's a maiden, Aegon, the sweetest of them. Have you ever had a maiden? Were you as gentle with her as she deserved?” Aemond loomed over his King, stepping closer to him as he spoke. Aegon swallowed his words, he had himself fretted over how to handle something as soft, sweet and easy to break as Aleana was. Aegon began to shrink under the pressure of his brother's gaze and Aemond felt his superiority soaring, he had Aegon under his thumb, as he had him in the war room, in the training yard and in the skies. “But it's not all bad news. Our sister is not as selfish as you are” he scoffed as he leaned into Aegon's back, having circled behind him. “She’s sought me out to be her teacher, as I always have been. To show her how to please you” Aegon swallowed as his eyes met Aleana's. She was resting against Aegon’s headboard, supported by the many cushions he piled there. She turned bright red as he looked at her with lust, though Aemond spoke so softly she could not hear his words. “Do you think you can be as generous to her as she hopes to be to you? Do you think yourself worthy of her sweetness?” Submissively, Aegon first nodded his head ‘yes’ and then shook it ‘no’ as Aemond questioned him, his brother's words were drenched in his lust, seemingly for control and power, but lust nonetheless, and Aegon was receptive to lust in all its forms.

“I'll have to guide you too then, to make sure you earn her” Aemond licked his lips.

“Yes, brother” Aegon's voice dripped with his own wanting. 

“Small clothes, now” Aemond ordered and then jutted his chin toward the bed, Aegon lost his robe and breeches as he moved. 

Lane watched, her lower limbs worming up the bed towards her torso, as they approached. Aegon walked quickly while her twin lingered back, he leaned against the bedpost at her feet as her husband circled the bed to join her. 

“You’ve been given the most precious gift in all of the seven kingdoms, are you aware?” Aemond spoke as his eyes danced between his siblings on the bed. 

“Aemond, please-” Aleana shook her head and looked down, blushing as spoke through her fingers and picked at her lip in embarrassment. 

“I am.” Aegon turned his attention from Aemond to Lane as he spoke. “He’s right, sweet one, you are the loveliest thing I have ever seen, the prettiest maiden in Westeros” Aegon laid close to Lane on his side, his head supported by his elbow, he leaned slightly over her and she looked up at his face as he spoke. It’d been long years since he’d complimented her so, if ever, so unabashedly. Lane smiled at him and he took her nervous fingers away from her face and wrapped his large hand around them. “You’ve injured yourself, wife” he moved in closer and whispered into her mouth before gently, as if testing the waters, he brought his lips to hers. He kissed her as slowly as he could muster, knowing Aemond was watching with high expectations. Aegon was trying desperately to recall his first real kiss, his first real intimate moment and tap into how new and strange it all must have been for him. He was confident that if he could channel that newness, he could take good care of her. Aegon’s kiss stung Lane’s damaged skin, but she leaned into him all the same, relishing the way his soft, warm flesh moved like silk against her own. Aegon’s free hand found the tie on Laney’s robe and he began tugging at the knot before Aemond’s voice stopped him. 

“Just her robe, Aegon” Lane, still relishing his well practiced kisses, moved with him to stay connected as Aegon nodded. The knot came loose and the dark velvet robe slid heavily from Aleana’s shoulders to pool on the mattress around her. Her small clothes only covered her to her knees and the creamy skin of her shins glowed in the light shining in from the terrace. Aegon drew back, letting his eyes wander the newly exposed skin that stretched over her clavicles and the top of her sternum. She was pale as milk and Aegon moved his hand across the round of her shoulder as he leaned in to inhale her scent at the juncture of her neck. Aleana’s hands were knotted together over her tummy, even as her eyes fluttered and she craned her neck to welcome Aegon’s lips when he pressed them to a freckle that jumped atop her jugular. 

“It would be kind of you to return your husband’s touches” Aemond wet his lips, smirking as he watched the girl immediately respond. She draped her hand over Aegon’s side, rubbing at the small of his back tentatively with her fingers. Her other hand she used to comb back his hair that had curtained their faces. “That’s a lovely girl” her twin praised her and her husband hummed an appreciation all his own against her as she instinctively let her hand snake under the hem of Aegon’s tunic to rub against his searing skin. 

“Lovely indeed” Aegon gasped as he pulled away from her. Her arousal was growing more tangible, he could feel the change in her mood as her skin warmed and became more fragrant under him, he was alight with the thrall of wanting and being wanted. “Your skin, my love, tastes so good” Aegon told her, before he drug his tongue flat across her clavicle, his hand splayed across her neck held her steady as she jolted. 

“Aegon” she yelped out, taking hold of his elbow. 

“Oh sweet girl, I’m going to ruin you” he chuckled at her prudish reaction. 

“Ruin me, Aegon?” she huffed at him. 

“Absolutely ruin you” he answered, his hand wrapped around Aleana’s breast, squeezing it harshly in his excitement. 

“Gently now, brother, she's not ready for that yet.” Aemond tutted as Lane squirmed, his painful action had chilled her skin and she looked at him with clearer eyes. Still her arousal had not totally abandoned her and she waited, her reddened lips slightly ajar, and softly huffed her exhales. “Kiss it better” Aemond smiled as he issued his command. He watched Aegon use his elbows to move down the mattress and then begin to press kisses against his twins clothed chest. Lane let out an airy sigh, a sound that combined delight and excitement. It was the loudest noise she’d produced yet and she recoiled in embarrassment, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as her head rolled upwards against the cushion. Aegon’s lips wrapped around the swell of her breast and he sucked gently at it as he watched Aemond walk the length of the bed and crouch by Lane’s head, her eyes fluttered open and she turned her face towards him when she heard him arrive. “Don’t hide your pleasure, doña, he’s working so hard for it, after all, wants it so badly. Let him hear you.” he finished in the ancient language the siblings all shared. 

Lane nodded reverently, her cheeks were flushing and Aemond salivated as his eye settled on Aegon, who suckled and licked earnestly at Lane’s peaked bud, there were darkened circles of cloth, from his previous kisses, clinging to her, but the sheer fabric around her areola was soaked through as Aegon had found a spot he particularly enjoyed. 

Laney’s chest bowed into him, his other hand worked gently on her other side. He rolled her pebbled nipple between his fingers and petted at her more than squeezed, having learned from his previous mistake. “Good boy, Aegon. Much better” Aemond praised. He could feel his twin’s breath panting on his face as he lingered. “She likes that very much, don't you, ñuha Dãria?” 

“Yes, Aegon, very much” Lane answered, she pushed upwards into his mouth and his hand, and Aegon capitalized on the curve of her shoulders. He eased down the thin strap of her long chemise, removing his mouth from her only long enough to peel the sticky fabric away from her skin, it joined her robe bunched around her waist. Lane cried out softly at the new contact, the sensation which was sinfully delicious with the barrier of her clothes had grown to be overwhelming without it. Laney gasped and tugged at Aegon's hair as he chased her sounds, she tried to adjust to his zealousness but it was quickly becoming too much for her. 

“Slow down, brother, gently” Aemond reminded him. Aegon whined as his tongue slowed and he eased into long, flat licks across the whole of her breast. Lane moaned and her hand tightened into a tug on Aegon's scalp. “Soft and slow for our sweet sister, Aegon, you must control your excitement” 

“Too good, too soft” he pleaded against her skin, there was a purple half circle forming that glistened with his spit in the light. 

“I know, my King, I know,” Aemond grinned. Lane was in throws, her mouth hung open and sweet mews floated from her throat as Aegon licked and sucked at her. Pulling away to view her, encouraged by her sounds, Aegon moved his hand tenderly down Lane's abdomen. She looked up at him with blown eyes and the muscles in her tummy fluttered as she watched him take her in. He took his time, rubbing softly at the slope of her bellowing ribcage, He leaned in to kiss each bone as they danced beneath her skin. He dipped his tongue into her belly button, making Lane arch up from the bed slightly, Aemond pressed her softly down by her shoulder and told her to ‘Relax’. She huffed, nodding, and watched Aegon move his tongue nearly down to the line of her small clothes before he brought it back upward between her heaving bosom. 

“My sweet, sweet girl” Aegon hummed as he returned to his former menstruations, his lips coming this time to the breast he had previously given less attention to. His hand was moving back down her torso, Lane’s eyes were tightly closed as she relished in Aegon’s mouth but they flew open when his palm pressed against her mons though the fabric that still covered her there. Aleana’s hand shot down and wrapped around his wrist, stopping his motion, her hand trembling around him. Aegon removed his mouth from her to look down with questioning eyes. His features had gone harsh with lust but his eyes poured love. 

“Aegon” she pleaded, her voice edging on a sob. “What are you doing?” her words were a suffocated whisper. 

“You’ll like it, sweetling. I'm trying to make you feel good.” he answered her. Aemond sat back on his haunches, watching silently as Aleana looked up at his brother. 

“The septa didn’t say anything-” she pulled at her hands nervously. “She only said it would hurt” Aegon relaxed into the cushion and took Lane’s face in his palm.

“Sex is for pleasure, ñuha doña. Septa’s and Maester’s and Grandsire, old fools all of them, they know nothing, truly, about love and passion.” He carded her hair and rubbed at her temple with the pad of his thumb as he spoke. Laney didn’t respond but her rigid body relaxed, her head returning softly to her pillow and she released her hold on Aegon’s wrist. “Trust me, my love” he assured her as he returned pressure to her center. Because of Aleana’s nerves, the sensation was not immediately pleasurable, but slowly, as she allowed herself to sink back in the cushions and as Aegon returned to kissing her chest, moving between her breasts without taking his lips from her skin, his hand began to feel warm and welcome. 

There was a soft click of wood in the space next to them and Lane looked over to see Aemond positioning Aegon’s writing chair a foot or so away from the bed, he eased into it and they locked eyes for a moment. “You’re alright, doña, let Aegon do what he’s best at.” Aemond’s compliment was generous, and Aegon let out a grateful hum against Lane’s skin. 

“I’ll make you feel good, Laney, I promise I will” he panted as he took her nipple further into his mouth, simultaneously applying a stronger touch to her. His hand was so large, he was able to rest his palm on her pubis while his fingers stretched to cover her slit. Lane whimpered at his action and the noise encouraged Aegon to develop a rhythm for her. He began slowly pressing and rubbing up and down again and again as he licked and kissed at her and within a few minutes, he would feel her slick beginning to soak through the fabric of her small clothes. He removed himself from her nipple and drug his lower lip up her neck, he settled kisses on the triangle behind her ear as he spoke to her. “My little wife’s all wet for me” He teased as he nipped at her earlobe. “Tell me, wife, tell me how much you like it” he smiled as he and Aemond met eyes.

Aleana’s ‘Yes’ was unintelligible, the word transforming into a hitched moan as Aegon curled two of his fingers to press hard against her opening. 

“What was that, doña? We can’t hear you” Aemond leaned in. Lane was nodding wildly, her eyes clamped tightly as she tried again to speak, but each sound she attempted was stolen and changed into a huff or a moan as she began to abandon control of her expressions. 

Aegon grinned as she unraveled, he looked down at where his hand met her body and chuffed with pride as Lane had started moving to meet his fingers. 

“Good girl, Laney, do what your body wants you to” her twin praised her, his words were all but drowned out by the rushing of blood in Lane’s head, she was feeling dizzy and her lips were starting to tingle. 

“You do have to remember to breathe, sweetling” Aemond cooed as he watched her try to suck in a breath. “If you don’t, I’ll have to tell Aeg to stop.”

“NO!” she shouted, surprising both her brothers, “Please, Aegon, please don't stop” she begged. There were tears glistening in her eyes and she panted heavily as she held onto her husband's bicep. 

“I have no plans of stopping, I promise” Aegon changed the angle of his hand, the tips of his middle three fingers rubbed almost harshly at Lane’s hooded clit through her cotton fabric and as she moaned and quaked beneath him, he looked to his brother for permission to remove the final barrier between their touches. 

Aemond nodded, he rubbed at his chin with his hand and sucked at his lower lip as he watched his brother shift between Lane’s legs. Aegon brought his hands to the laces that crossed over each other just below her belly button, the newly-weds locked eyes as he carefully worked at them, being careful not to claw or tug them loose as he usually would. “You make the sweetest noises, Laney.” Aleana moved to cover her face, to shield herself from seeing Aegon reveal her most intimate place, but Aemond made a disapproving noise and she brought her hands back to the sheets. Once her laces were loose, Aegon slid his fingers into the hem on either side of her hips and gently tugged the fabric of both her bottoms and her discarded chemise down her legs. As the cold air hit Aleana’s flesh, she squeezed her thighs tightly together and closed her eyes, struggling to overcome her embarrassment. 

“Easy now, sweetling, relax for me” Aegon whispered as he rubbed his palm over her hip bone. “We have the prettiest little sister, don't we, Aemond? With the sweetest cunt I've ever seen” 

“Aegon!” Lane's eyes opened at his vulgarity. A matching chuckle came from both her brothers. 

“The sweetest cunt in the realm” Aemond confirmed and Lane, impossibly, blushed. 

“You're wife, Aemond,” she whispered, her eyes scanning the room as if in search of the woman she felt the complement betrayed. 

“She doesn't compare. She could never even come close.” Her twin's eye burned with lust as he stared into her and spoke. The lust Aleana saw reflected in Aemond’s eye burned her and stole any response she might have mustered. 

Aegon smiled at the exchange, at his wife's sweet humility and his brother's longing. He leaned down to kiss the curve of tummy over Lane's womb. “I'm going to put a baby right here.” Lane shivered as he worked his lips and fingers across the newly exposed swatch of skin. Slowly, Aegon returned his hand to her center, Lane lurched and her inhale sliced the silence as he touched her. His fingers dipped between her legs, into her flower, where he began a painfully controlled exploration of her warmth. Laney’s breaths came out as airy little yelps, one of her hands tangled in the sheets and the other pulled on the fabric that covered Aegon’s ass. He could feel her tense muscles beneath his hands and he nudged his chin against her face as he huffed in her ear “I’ve got you, sweetheart, you’re alright” He kissed her earlobe and trailed his lips to a sweet spot he’d found her to enjoy earlier. “Does that feel good?” he coaxed as he softly circled the tip of his pointer finger over her clit. “Tell me, doña, please.”

Aleana nodded furiously, the two lengths of their silver hair mixing as their heads rocked in rhythm against each other. In lieu of words Laney’s lips found Aegons’ skin, she kissed and panted at his jawbone as she writhed against him. “Use your words, Aleana” Aemond dictated.

Lane managed a strangled ‘So good’ as Aegon applied sharper pressure to her throbbing button. 

“Good girl, good girl” Aegon let her earlobe slip from his lips to praise her. 

“I want to taste her, Aemond” Aeg huffed, she was so wet, he could only imagine how sweet she would taste and how wildly she’d buck beneath him as he licked her. 

“Oh not yet, sweet brother” Aemond smirked, he’d never seen Lane make faces like this before, he’d never seen her lips curl in such a way and he was captivated, as he’d always been, by her beauty. “Perhaps you should save those kisses for the morning” he mused and Aegon smiled at the thought of waking her in such a delicious way. 

“There’s an idea,” Aeg answered. Laney trembled, oscillating her hips against his finger, she clung to him with both hands as she moaned prettily and panted under him. Aegon wanted to make her come undone, he increased his speed and pressure against her and within seconds she was crying out and digging her nails into his bare shoulders. 

Lane’s toes were curling and her thighs squeezed against Aegon’s palm as he worked. 

A sharp cry pushed through her lips and she tried to focus her eyes on Aemond. “Hurts, it hurts” she sobbed, tears of painful pleasure and overstimulation brimming her eyes. 

Her twin left his chair and sat on the edge of the bed, he carded the hair above her eyes away from her face and used his gentle grip on the scalp of her crown to still her so he could look into her eyes.“You need to relax, it hurts when you fight your climax” he told her. There was just enough space between the couple's grinding bodies to allow Aemond’s hand to rest softly on Lane’s womb. “Ease your muscles” he pressed gently and as Aleana nodded into him and disengaged her abdominal muscle, her sharp pants softened to satisfied moans and she began bucking into Aegon’s hand as he teased her. 

“Come for me Laney, come for your husband” Aegon pleaded against her ear, his cock was painfully hard in his small clothes, his head leaking as he rubbed against her thigh. As if on command, Lane’s eyes snapped closed and a wave of motion replaced her desperate, uncoordinated bucking, her hips rolled and her hands balled into fist as her orgasm overtook her. Aemond held his hand in place, feeling her body rock against his brothers as she peaked. “Good girl, Laney, my love, perfect girl” Aegon's voice was a blissful whisper as he slipped his finger inside her as she exploded. He hoped to minimize the unavoidable discomfort of having something inserted into her soft, sweet cunt for the first time. As Aleana came, she rocked herself on his finger, leaving Aegon to simply watch and writhe, worming his hips and legs and against her warm skin, as she trembled and moaned, her tits heaving and head rolling as she raptured. “Sweet wife” he huffed his praise. 

She moaned her husband's name as she broke through the haze, while he curled his finger against the sweet spot inside of her. He claimed her lips in a kiss, using his free hand to cup her jaw and wipe tears of ecstasy from her face. He smiled down at her, kissing at her neck and face, as her body relaxed against him. As the desperate clamp of her pussy on his digit dissipated, Aegon slowly added a second. Aleana whimpered and purred, tugging at Aegon, grasping at his arm and his back, rocking into him gently as he stretched her. Aemond had returned to his chair, he gathered his long hair in his hands and used a strip of leather to pull it into a low bun in an attempt to relieve the searing heat that engulfed him. His vigilance was renewed as he knew the moment of potential pain was nearing, though it seemed Aegon was carefully working to lessen her discomfort.

Aegon did not wait for instruction, he kissed Aleana’s forehead and the side of her face as he gently withdrew his fingers from her. He hurriedly removed his small clothes, not bothering with the care he’d shown in removing hers and as quickly as he could returned to kissing and petting Laney. Their hands explored each other, Lane’s running along his torso until the tips of her fingers found the thatch of hair that crowned his member. Lane looked bashfully down their bodies, and as Aemond caught her peeking, he issued an order to his brother. 

“Let her see you” his voice was gravely, he rubbed at his chin and chewed at his lips softly as he watched Aegon sit back on his haunches, huffing and red faced. He rubbed one hand across Aleana’s soft thigh and the other across his flushed abdomen as the brothers watched Laney’s eyes move across his body and settle at his large, swollen cock. 

“You’re going to put that inside me?” her eyes jumped from Aemond to Aegon as she swallowed painfully. “I can’t- you can’t” her voice cracked in fear. Aegon leaned forward and took her cheek in his hands.

“Shh, ssh” he kissed her face and rubbed at her sternum as he begged. “Trust me, you can. It’ll feel good, Laney, I know how to make you feel good” he promised her and then kissed her reddened lips. His voice edged on desperate and despite his reassuring words, Aemond worried he’d lose control when the ecstasy of breaching her overtook him. 

“Aeg, I can't-” she tried to argue but her voice was stolen in another kiss and a whimper as Aegon eased back into her and resumed moving his fingers inside her overly-sensitive heat.

“You can take it, sweet girl, I know you can” he assured her as he began pumping his fingers in and out of her opening. “I know you can”.  He used his thumb to press on her clit, yanking a moan from her and sending her again into a back and forward tilt on his fingers. Aegon whined, his pupils were blown out and his lips as red and puffy as the head of his cock. 

“Can I fuck her now, Aemond?” he cried out, he humped and rutted against her bare thigh like a teenage boy, painting it with his precum. Lany reacted to him, leaning into his touches and fighting for purchase on his body with her hands. “Please?” he begged, his lips trembling with need. 

Laney was fully surrendered, she rocked against his fingers and kissed at his pale shoulder, her fingers left harsh red indents as she squeezed along his arms and back. As Aemond took in her want, he brought his eye to his desperate brother and gave a single, nearly painful nod. He had to give her over now, not only for the sake of duty, but for the sake of her pleasure as he could not deny her clear desperation and need. “Gently, Aegon” he warned, his brother nodded ardently and moved to position himself between Aleana’s legs. 

The girl looked up at him with big, purple eyes, she huffed and reached for him as fat tears of pleasure rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve got you, Laney, I'm gonna make you feel so good. Gonna fill you up” his voice was low and he sounded half drunk with lust. 

Aegon took his cock in his hand and moved it to Lane’s center, she gasped as he rubbed the head of it against her folds and her hand shot across the bed towards Aemond. She reached for him as she always had when frightened and Aemond came to her as he always did. He stood from his chair and took her hand, then climbed onto the bed and lifted her upper back so he could wedge himself behind her against the headboard. Aegon was lost in rapture as he rubbed himself against her, he pressed his cock to against her clit, swirling it over and over against her thumping swell and the King and his new Queen called and answered to each other's moans as Aegon readied her. 

“Just relax, sweetling, soften your tummy like I showed you” Aemond encouraged as he looked down at her. Aleana had laced her fingers with her twins, her sweat slicked back curled and flattened against his front as she rocked into the stimulation Aegon applied to her. 

Aegon worked his cock up and down her crease, collecting her wetness and warming her to his touch, and when finally the hand wrapped around himself was all but dripping, he lined himself up with and eased against her opening. 

Aleana's body went still and she hissed sharply, her grasp on Aemond’s hands tightening fiercely as Aegon began his intrusion upon her. His cock stretched the thin membrane of her opening, it burned like fire and Lane struggled to stay relaxed as she'd been instructed. “Oww, ouch, stop, stop” she cried, the tears of pleasure which had decorated her cheeks evolved into streams of painful ones, her hips tilted away from Aegon, pressing her ass against Aemond’s pelvis. 

Aegon stilled immediately upon her cries, his head had only just cleared her and there were many inches, both in length and girth, of him to go. The squeeze and warmth was heaven and Aegon fought to stay still and to find words of comfort. She was so tight, it felt as if he was fighting a suction emanating from the depth of her. “I'm sorry, my sweet, so sorry” he whined, stilling his cock with one hand and supporting his weight above her with the other. He fought his every instinct, his every habit; if it had been any woman, any whore under him but his new wife, his sweet sister he’d be balls deep, chasing his own pleasure by now. But Aegon was determined to do better for her, to be better for she who deserved it so fully. 

“Breathe, Laney, you're alright. It only hurts for a little while” Aemond wormed a hand from her, and used it to pet her face, drying the tears and shiny sweat that painted her like a diamond in the fire light. Her empty hand knotted into the fabric atop his thigh and she shook in his grip. “Relax” Aemond's voice cracked with lust and stimulation as he talked her through it. “You have to relax.” 

“I can’t, it hurts” she gasped, her shoulders heaved and her stiff legs trembled visibly on either side of Aegon's body. 

“This is the worst of it my love, Aeg has to break though your maidenhead” he explained, he watched as her teeth chattered and fought his own battle to keep still, to stop himself from shoving Aegon off his girl and carrying her away from her pain. This was necessary, he reminded himself, convinced himself. 

“Break through-” a yelp interrupted her words as Aegon slipped just a hair's width deeper into him, his hand tingled under his weight and he fought bombarding, dizzying pleasure. 

“Hold still, Aegon” Aemond warned and Aegon looked up at the twins nodding desperately, trying to convey his willingness and struggle. “You can do it, Aeg, be still” Aemond told him before he turned his face back to Lane. “Your maidenhead is flesh stretched across the opening of your cunt, it keeps Aegon's cock out and he has to rip through it to get to the spot that will make you feel good.” Aemond explained, anger danced at the back of his mind that someone hadn't taught his Princess, the Queen, the realities of coupling. It had been a disservice to her. “It's almost over, take a breath” he told her. 

Aleana's purple eyes fluttered in pain, she clawed at Aegon's back now, holding on to both her brothers as she failed to find a comfortable position to relax into, as soon as her muscles softened around Aegon, his member pressed against her and she recoiled. Aemond took a stealing breath and brought Laney's clinging hand to Aegon’s neck. As she grappled onto Aegon and cried, as Aegon moaned in torture, Aemond wrapped his hands around Aleana’s hips and fought through his building guilt to force her pelvis to tilt toward Aegon. His twin began to yelp as he moved her, but he held firm and forced her to stay still against Aegon’s barley enveloped head. “I know, my girl, let it hurt, take a breath for me” he spoke in her ear, his voice strangled as he tried to control himself, to control the situation that was maddening him with anger and guilt and jealousy. He took in Aegon’s blissfully agonized face, the way his lips curled, and his eyebrows furrowed, his enjoyment and torture evident in his glowing, sweaty skin and his blown out eyes. “Go on, Aegon, give her a little more” Aemond ordered and Aegon cried out in relief of the permission as he slid another agonizing inch into his wife. 

Aleana tried to back away from the somehow doubling pain but Aemond held her firm, he whispered praise and comfort in her ear but the words were not intelligible as they mixed with her own whimpers and Aegon’s moans. “Laney, seven hells” Aeg moaned. Making the most of his grant to move, he drew up onto his heels, and took Lane’s ass into his hands, kneading her flesh gently before resting her on his thighs, his hands free now to support her quaking legs as she adjusted to him filling her. The bottoms of Aemond’s hands brushed against Aegon's knees as he held her in place. 

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart, taking him so well. You’re such a good little wife.” She moaned loudly at her twins words and Aemond caressed her chin, his eye moving downward from her face, to her tits, to the apex between her legs where Aegon had begun to slowly withdraw and replace the short length he’d given her. The top quarter of his cock was coated with blood, a few thick trails of ichor ran down the remainder of his length to spread into Aegon’s curly, pale white, nearly invisible pubic hair. As Aeg worked, Lane’s sharp pained cries began to soften into uncomfortable pants, the worst was over, this assured Aemond. Her barrier was torn down and now she need only adjust to the foreign stretching and fullness. “You look so pretty” he told her, admiring aloud the way her pale flesh had gone pink and the way her lips fell into a soft, craving ‘O’ as she began to truly soften to Aegon’s cock. 

A soft pleased huff escaped her lips and she, nearly undetectably, rolled her hips onto Aegon. “I told you, ñuha Dãria, I knew I could make you feel good” Aegon’s voice was breathy, his words cut with moans and huffs as he slid into her again, giving her more and more of himself, little by little as he dipped into her. Aemond watch and listened as Aegon settled further and further into his twin, as Lany cried out and moaned against her husband’s skin, as she trembled in Aemond’s grip while he held her still to be fucked. “My sweet wife” the eldest brother’s moan was a whimper as he began to lose control, as his hips began to hammer more sharply into Lane’s heat. 

“Aeg” she moaned against him, her lips trembling. Finally, all pain had dissolved into pleasure. Aegon’s girth filled her in a way that felt completely right, as if the emptiness that existed there before had been a mistake, as if her pussy had been carved out by Aegon’s cock itself. 

“Gently, Aegon” Aemond reminded, Aegon had become more erratic, the last three inches of his length were meeting with resistance and he was desperate to be fully seated inside his wife. Aleana was rocking to meet him now, but her movements were sloppy and untimed, she whined in frustration as their bodies missed alignment in their rutting.

“No, not gently, all of you, please” she huffed out, leaving forward to grab at Aegon’s shoulder, her voice was breathy and desperate.  Aegon’s cautious movements had become too pleasing and simultaneously not enough, she needed more from him. She reached for his hips and tried to rut herself against him but still could not find the right movement to fit rightly against him. Aemond realized this was a moment in which he could aid her and he boldly began to use his hands to bounce her against Aegon, meeting his brother with perfect time and depth. This was enough and under her twins guidance, Aleana was overtaken by perfected bliss, her head fell back onto Aemond's shoulder and Aemond saw the whites of her eyes as her eyelids fluttered. Aegon responded in like, moaning and grunting with his whole chest in between the kisses he planted on Lane’s shoulders and clavicle. “Aemond” slipped breathily from her lips as he brought her sharply down, again and again, onto her husband's cock. Aemond twitched as she said his name, his own cock hard and angry beneath his breeches. The ache in his groin was only intensified when his brother, the King, repeated Lane’s call, huffing out his name as he brought his siblings' bodies together. 

“You both sound so pretty” Aemond meant to tease but the words came as a lust filled groan. 

Aemond’s efforts were making all the difference, Laney had grown impossibly wetter in her thrall and finally, with sounds of triumph from the three silver-haired beauties in the King's bed, Aegon was fully enveloped by his sister, the two met bone to bone, groaning and panting, rocking together in all encompassing euphoria. 

“You’ve done it, sweet sister, you’ve taken all of your husband's cock.” Aemond praised her, his fingers dug into her hips, Aegon’s speed was building and Aemond worked to meet his new pace. 

“Little wife, you feel so good” Aegon smiled wickedly, the desperation he’d felt as he tried to control himself, to curb his appetites and handle his wife with care had dissipated as she encouraged him, as Aemond now slammed her onto him with abandon. His capabilities had been restored and he was able now to enjoy himself more thoroughly, to open his eyes and take her in, to move his hands to her glistening breasts and bring his lips to Lane’s own. “Such a good pussy” he released the flesh of her neck to croon at her. “My pussy” he rambled blissfully as he sank into her. Aemond had overtaken his pace, Aeg was again under his brother's thumb as he worked the newly wed towards their building climaxes.

“Stop, Aegon” Aemond sharply ordered. Aegon looked at Aemond in confusion and groaned as Aemond’s piercing eye found him over Aleana’s shoulder. She groaned with him as he stilled inside her. “You’re mistaken, brother.” Aemond held Laney still as he spoke. “This sweet little thing, is mine” Aemond growled, Aleana began to whine under him and Aemond smiled though his gruff words as he brought his fingers down Lane’s pubis to tuck into her, he rubbed lazily at her slick and swollen glans; Her whines turned to pleasured mews, Aegon eyes were glued to the delicious and torturous attention his brother gave his wife. “Sshh, dona” Aemond whispered in Aleana’s ear as she rocked against his fingers, she huffed desperately for a continuation of the stimulation Aegon's cock had provided her.  “Laney is mine, Aegon” he stared his brother down. “I let you marry her, and I’m letting you fuck her, and I’ll let you give her children.” Aegon gulped  “But she belongs to me.” Laney did not respond to Aemond’s words, she was sucking at her lip and pulling at Aegon’s hips, trying as hard as she could to get her husband to move against her again. 

“Please-” she huffed.

“Hush now, Laney.” Aemond’s voice switched from sharp to loving as he addressed her, he pressed harder into her clit and Laney yelped out against him. “Do you understand, brother?” Aemond smiled cruelly and hummed in delight as Aegon nodded reverently. 

“Yes, Aemond” the King panted, his eyes, locked onto Aemond’s own, glittered with hedonism and need and submission. 

“Good” Aemond rubbed harshly at Aleana now, the girl gyrated against his fingers, her actions moved Aegon’s cock in a circle inside of her and the two joined siblings moaned in satisfaction. “Make her come now” he commanded.  

“Yes, Aemond” Aegon went to work chasing her second orgasm, the two brothers worked together, Aemond relentlessly rubbing at Aleana’s swollen bud, and Aegon bounding into her heat. He wrapped his hands around her folded legs, shifting her further into his lap and the change of angle brought a strangled scream from Laney’s throat, she reached forward and wrapped her arms around Aegon’s shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck as she began repeating his name like a prayer. “Come for me, Laney. Come for me so I can fill you up.” he kissed and sucked at her shoulder. “Please, sweetheart, please” he begged, squeezing at her ass with one hand and tugging at her hair with the other. Aemond was on his knees behind the pair, his arm wrapped around Laney’s waist and his hand pressed flat between his siblings as he rubbed at her throbbing button.

Aegon’s pleading sent Laney over the edge, the coil that had tightened in her core sprung wildly, pin-pricks of light scattered across the insides of her closed eyelids and she cried out with abandon.  As she unwound, her legs pressed into Aegon’s torso and her walls closed around his cock, milking him, urging him to completion. “Good boy, Aeg” Aemond praised his brother, proud of the way he’d brought Laney pleasure. “Come for me, Aegon” Aemond lifted Aegon’s head by his hair, staring into his eyes as he dictated to him. 

The order falling from his brother's lip shot Aegon into the realm of ecstasy, he attempted to answer him, choking on a painful ‘Yes, Aemond’ as he began to buck into his still reeling bride. He brought his hands to her hips and pressed her against him with all his might as he fucked her, his eyes locked on his brother’s face as he cried out and painted her walls with his seed. Aleana whimpered at the sensation, the nails on one of her hands dug crescent moons into Aegon’s neck while her other found purchase behind her on Aemond’s thigh. Aemond had abandoned her, his fingers were laced in his brother's hair and petting his leg as Laney and Aeg settled. Lane hand gone slack, she slumped on Aegon’s chest and her ass pressed against Aemond lap as the younger brother remained upright, watching Aegon’s face relax and settle into the unmatched comfort of release. Aegon cupped Laney's face, supporting her as the three siblings panted against one another. 

It was Aemond, or course, who finally unwound himself from them. As the moment expired, he realized how unexpectedly this first of Laney’s had evolved. He brought a basin and towel to his siblings and then sat back in his chair, watching silently, pondering, as Aegon laid Laney on her back and cleaned gently between her legs. Blood stained the inside of her thighs, it covered Aeg’s cock and was smeared across his pubis and hips and Aemond looked to his own lap to find a spattering across his own yellowed pants. He allowed himself, for the first time he could ever remember, to admire the soft curve of Aegon’s naked ass, he took in the shape of his softening cock, and found himself comparing Aegon’s soft body to Aleana’s. Where Aemond was muscled and toned, Aegon was almost womanly in the belly, legs and arms. Aegon’s Adams apple bobbed as he questioned Laney’s state but Aemond was entranced with the sudden desire to bite down on his brother’s moon-toned neck and didn’t hear the words the couple exchanged. Aemond swallowed dryly as he stood. Laney was in capable hands for now, Aegon was tucking her in lovingly, wrapping her in sheets and fluffing pillows behind her head, smiling down at her stupidly. Aleana startled when she heard the scrape of Aemond’s chair, she looked to her twin as if she’d forgotten he was there, but her eyes lit up with comfort as he leaned in and kissed her forehead and mumbled a ‘Goodnight’ against her skin. 

Aegon stared at his brother with wide eyes, his cheeks blushed red and his lips twitched as he took in all the harsher lines of Aemond’s face, as he examined, for the first time this intimately,  his brother's scar and the eyepatch he hid behind. 

“I’ll see you in the small council meeting tomorrow?” Aegon questioned, his voice cracked, the question meant so much more. He feared his brother’s rejection now more than he ever had, having been vulnerable to him in a way he never had been before. Aemond looked down at him, his eye conveying simultaneous comfort and command, and nodded. 

“Tomorrow, brother” Aemond answered aloud as he retreated. 

Down the hall, in front of his fireplace once again, this time full of peace, Aemond sipped his wine. His earlier feelings of jealousy and anger replaced with pride and power. He’d finally staked his claim on his twin. Equally enthralling, as Aemond recalled and replayed every moment of rupture he’d instigated and moderated, was the brewing realization that the urge and desire he felt to control his brother was not as callus and hate motivated as he’d thought it be, that his sweet twin was not the only sibling Aemond intended to lay claim to. 

“Tomorrow, brother” he told the vision of panting, pleading Aegon that knelt in his mind’s eye.

[samsalami66]

And I'm back again with an addition to my Knight!Hob Prince!Dream au (I've decided to go with royal au for shortness' sake lmao) which you can find the first part of here.

Once again all the love and thanks to my wonderful @im-not-corrupted , who provided me with motivation and screams as I wrote this little drabble and is the #1 fan of this au.

-----

Dream hated audiences. 

Audiences meant spending an awful amount of time in his parents' presence, and even if nobody paid much attention to the third royal child in a line of seven, it was still painful to spend even a minute longer than necessary in the King's and Queen's presence. Dream could feel his father's disapproving gaze drift towards him every time his eyes would droop a bit too low, whenever his elbow would slip from where he had it propped on the armrest of his throne to hold his head upright, which felt heavier with every word the current Lord or Duke let spill from his lips. 

Lord Burgess, the man currently grazing the family with his abnormally boring presence, looked about ready to explode as the King once again denied his request for an addition to his land, which would allow him to hunt in the forest neighboring his crops. But the forests were strictly royal territory, and Dream could have told Lord Burgess in much fewer sentences than his father that they would never give up on ancestral lands, not in this lifetime or any other. 

But just as Dream's eyes were about to close to allow him another few moments of respite from this whole ordeal, sounds echoed through the halls outside the throne room. Voices got louder in volume and increasingly more frustrated the closer they got. It was a blessing, an escape from these confines of literal hell, and Dream perked up curiously to figure out what the tumult was about. 

Between the shouts and hisses he could make out a hysterical You can't just waltz in there! and a very joyful Watch me, mate! and Dream decided that this was bound to become a much more interesting audience than he had anticipated. And, true to the small exclamation Dream overheard, a man did just waltz into the room, a smile on his face that would cause even the strongest hearts to faint in charm. Dream didn't quite know how he managed not to, when bright brown eyes caught his over the entirety of the room in an instant, familiar mischief hidden somewhere behind the obvious amusement. 

Christ, those eyes had brought ruin upon Dream once already, years ago, when they had both been young and stupid. Though, by the looks of it, Hob Gadling had not cast that particular trait aside, if his entrance was anything to go by. Guards were hot on his heels, panic written all over their faces as they didn't manage to keep this man from interrupting a private audience with the royal family, which would surely end in them being excused from their service. 

But Hob Gadling seemed to care little for their steps behind him or the guards eventual fate, his stride purposeful, a clear destination in his step. Dream realised much too late what that destination was, too distracted by the way Hob's shirt clung to muscles that had not been there when they had last met, hair that was longer and curlier than he remembered and that framed a bearded jaw so beautifully Dream almost swooned. There was no time for that though, not when those eyes finally left his and were cast towards the ground, not ten meters away from Dream. 

Hob Gadling was kneeling, his head tilted in a bow that was entirely unnecessary for the position he was already in, in front of Dream. 

Not in front of the family, or the King himself, but before Dream's throne, an unmistakable message to everyone present, a showcasing of ultimate loyalty.

To his left Dream could hear Lord Burgess hiss in annoyance at the interruption, the words You dare to interrupt my audience, commoner? falling from his lips like venom-infused blood. Dream did not care for boneless threats. 

He merely cared for the smile stretched over rosy lips before him, the cheeks that stretched with unconcealed amusement. Two guards reached Hob Gadling's side, prepared to force the uninvited guest out the room, and it took all of Dream's years of carefully trained composure to not jump from his throne in a sudden surge of panic. 

"Leave him be!" he demanded, voice overshadowing any and all conversation as he slowly rose from his throne. Hob's grin turned victorious at the exclamation, his posture more relaxed where he knelt on the black carpet to Dream's feet. "I want to know what he has to say." 

There were eyes on him, Dream knew, those of his parents, those of Lord Burgess, those of his guards. He knew his eldest sister was hiding a smile somewhere to his left, fully aware of his and Hob Gadling's relationship, and the only person in this world aware of Dream's feelings towards this infuriating, obviously insane man. 

All the attention Dream had held with his command shifted towards Hob Gadling when he opened his mouth to speak, determination colouring his voice with self-confidence that vibrated through Dream's body like the pleasant rumble of a cat's purr. 

"I come to pledge myself to you, my Lord," Hob started, almost causing Dream to choke on thin air. "In body and in mind, I swear to protect you with my blade and life. Make me your knight, Dream of the Endless, so that I might serve under your name until I take my last breath, until my body betrays my desire to keep you from harm." 

There was no sound filtering through the pounding of Dream's heart in his throat. This – This, Hob's declaration, his offering of complete and utter submission – it was insane, completely crazy, simply not done, not in royal families, not in any politics around the world. One pledged themselves to the King and thereby the country, not to a prince who would never be king, an outcast from his own folk, from his own family. 

This wasn't done, had never been done before, and yet Dream found he didn't care. He didn't care for one single moment about propriety, not when all he had ever wanted kneeled before his feet and offered him Heaven. 

"I do not know who you believe yourself to be, but I will not allow-" The King started off, but Dream cut his reply short, his voice purposefully overpowering that of his father. 

"I accept your request." 

The answer wasn't grand or eloquent, entirely false in its deliverance, unofficial without the ritualistic knighting. But Dream was in a trance, his hand not his own as he stepped down the stairs to stand before Hob, one hand reaching to the hilt of the sword that was hidden beneath his robes. 

When Dream pulled the sword from its sheath and held it to Hob's head, all those eyes reflected back at him was trust, even when faced with total submission, with surrendering himself entirely to Dream, his office and his personal whims. All of this, when Dream had left him behind at the mere notion of friendship, knowing he could not be friends with a commoner. He could be friends with his personal guardian, with a Knight who stood entirely under his protection, and the fact that Hob had been willing to go to such lengths to find a way to be in Dream's presence… 

Well, if Dream felt tears build in his eyes as he allowed his sword to rest on Hob's shoulders, once on each, then that was between him and his Knight. And when his voice trembled slightly as he spoke next, then that was just between them too. 

"Rise, Sir Robert Gadling." 

Dream huffed a silent laugh into the hug he was pulled in next, the excitement bubbling in his chest enough to chase away every ill thought of his parents' opinion as he burrowed his face in Hob's neck. 

The sense of safety he felt in the arms of his oldest friend was almost too much to bear. 

[esther-dot]

Beauty and the Beast

Tokens of Life (give me) 9k WIP by @ihaveastorminme

Jon thought of his mother's family often. But he never heard a whisper from them. Not once. Until the day the northern wind howled through the ancestral halls of the dragon Queens, bringing with it snow and wolves’ cries at its tail. Five hundred different deities in that hall, and nobody whispered when she walked in, tall and forbidding, the skirts of her dress swirling about her like mist and snow glittering unmelted in her flame hair. She looked at him... and everything changed.

No Rose Without a Thorn 24k

Ten years ago, the Others were defeated, the Starks took back the North, the Targaryens reclaimed the Iron Throne, and the Old Gods transformed Sansa Stark into a dread and dangerous beast. Now, winter is coming, the beast remains, and the family would really like Sansa to be a full time human again.

The Beast, the Beauty, and the Bastard 3k

It is a reworking of Disney's Beauty and the Beast, but with a bit of a twist. Hope you enjoy!

Certain As the Sun 22k, incomplete

Sansa is bright, beautiful, and out of place in her little town. After her father is captured in a forgotten castle, she moves to take his place with the cursed prince.

Gifset by @dcbicki and Gifset by @yenstarkofrivia

Rapunzel

From Tower to Tower 10k incomplete

Locked away in a tower for eighteen years by a witch claiming to be her Mother, long-haired Sansa seeks freedom and a chance to regain her crown as Princess of the kingdom. But the tower is high as she has no means to get down, aside from her incredibly long hair, and no guarantee of safety in the outside world she has been warned about. One night, when the witch is out, and a thief who climbs the tower seeking refuge happens upon her, she stuns herself by taking a chance and asking him to help her escape. Assuring him that she will have all charges against him dropped when he returns her to her rightful parents, she embarks on a series of first discoveries with her new bandit friend Jon.

I'll not be climbin' up, I'll only be calling good morning 13k @violetcoloredglasses

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flower shaped heart 25k, incomplete @missfaber

Alayne Stone has lived her whole life in her hidden tower, forbidden by Mother to leave. But she yearns for an adventure like the ones in the songs, so when a man named Jon Snow crashes into her tower and into her life, she seizes the chance. They travel to King's Landing where the floating lanterns shine each year on her nameday. The new world is exciting and frightening, but Jon Snow is there to guide her every step. He is not nearly as terrible as Mother said men are, though the rest of the world might be. Danger, betrayals, and lies form the steps of their journey as Alayne uncovers terrible secrets. corresponding moodboard

Let Down Your Red Hair .6k

A Jonsa Rapunzel story told in verse. With her father beheaded and her brother marching against the king, the last thing Sansa expects is for her hair to never stop growing. She is soon locked away in the tallest tower of the Red Keep, withdrawn from court as the War of the Five Kings rages on. Elsewhere, rumors of her magical hair have spread to the Wildlings, who see her fiery strands as their last hope against the coming winter.

Tangled edit by @kitten1618x, Tangled edit by @queen-sans-in-the-north, Tangled edit by @sardoniyx

Tangled gifset by @dcbicki

Sleeping Beauty

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When The North celebrates the birth of Lady Sansa, all the realm is invited to celebrate with them. Each Lady of a Great House bestows a gift upon the little lady, including Cersei Lannister, whose presence at the celebration is both unexpected and unnerving.

Once upon a Dream 1k by @azulaahai

Sansa is under a curse - fallen into a magical sleep, she, according to the prophecy, can only be awoken by a kiss from a dragon. Arya rides south to ask for help from the dragon king Aegon, but the king’s grumpy half brother Jon might prove to be an obstacle.

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Sleeping Beauty Gifset

East of the Sun and West of the Moon

you are my sun, my moon (and all of my stars) 133k

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this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty 22k by @dialux

“I fell,” Sansa says softly. “I flew.” [When a strange, hooded man appears out of nowhere, demanding a woman in return for keeping the Others and dead out of Westeros, Sansa goes with him. It’s the best and worst decision of her life.]

PRE CANON - WESTERN - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON 6

[themonotonysyndrome]

Talia Hall

The first time Castin sets foot on Imperial shores is also the first time he stands in front of his wife's ancestral home.

Talia Hall.

Named after the first Baroness of House Anesidora. A woman who belonged in the inner circle of the first Emperor of the Coastal Empire. It is said that she is as cunning as she is friendly. She would greet you with open arms and a dagger in one hand. She whispered treasonous rumours into the Emperor's ears with a smile. For her loyalty, the Emperor gifted her a title and land with one lone mountain, which, at the time, was filled with untapped veins of mineral gems. And when it was discovered, the newly minted Baroness proved her cunningness once again. She married a businessman who loved her more than she did him, and the rest is history. A chapter of hers is dedicated in the history books. It's twice as long in Intacian.

'Veiled Hands Gift Freely.'

Once uttered by Castin's darling wife as she taught him her family's deeds. When he comments that her house words sound like a threat, Celica simply smiles (he tries to imagine it on the late Talia Anesidora as she stands in battle beside the Emperor's bannermen) and corrects him.

"Funny, it was impressed upon me as a promise."

Well.

Given how the boons that Celica enjoy sharing tend to be a double-edged sword, there's no doubt that her house motto is carved deeply onto her bones. He tries not to grimace, thinking how proud her guardians must be. Noticing the lines on his forehead and how unsure his form is as they stand just shy outside of the mansion, the Baroness cups his cheek in concern. "Castin? Is something the matter?"

Surrounded by seasonal flowers from the well-kept front yard that literally stretched a mile and wearing a dress that's a masterpiece of dark elegance of red and gold - House Anesidora's noble colours - Celica is a beautiful daydream come true. Bearing an air of ethereal allure and quiet power. Castin loves how the fabric clings to her figure with a siren-like grace. It's ridiculous how easily she steals his breath away whenever Castin so much as to glance at her. Her expression is soft. Gentle. Stress is absent on her shoulders, yet her eyes are ever sharp. As if returning to her roots isn't enough to unburden the myriad of thoughts plaguing her. And it's those thoughts that worries him.

"Your man's just nervous, I guess," Castin replies, honestly. The trip went well; none of the passing guards gave so much as a stink eye when they saw him and its clear skies with no hint of cloud.

The other shoe is coming. Castin can practically feel it.

"Nervous?" Celica echoes with with eyes. "Whatever for? I promise you that no one will treat you with nothing less than befitting of your station as Commander of Intacia's might and Lord of House Anesidora."

"That's... that's not really it. Look, your other guardian is coming by for dinner, right?"

"Yes."

"Is it the insane one?"

"No, no - it's Tristan. He is sane in matters of import."

"Aite. We're going back to the ship. I'm telling Ezekiel not to unload our bags."

The Baroness is unamused when she finds herself over Castin's shoulder in a fireman lift, and when her husband is about to run back to the carriage, an equally unamused Ezekiel stops him. Despite pushing sixty, the silver fox of a man is still intimidating as hell. While the couple was too caught up with one another, he silently ordered the gatekeeper and guards to take their bags. The bags that are resting innocently at the head butler's sides.

"Really, man?" Castin scowls. Knowing when to fold 'em, he gently put his wife down. He helps adjust Celica's bonnet even when it's already perfectly tied. Castin lick his thumb.

"Tristan will not murder you during dinner tonight, darling. He knows how displeased that would make me." Celica assures him. She bats away his thumb reaching for her cheek. "Chin up, hmm? I'm excited to give you a tour of Talia Hall."

"Not home?"

"You are my home. This place is simply where I was born and grew up. Now, then. Ezekiel. You know what to do."

The Imperial peerages love their pomp and circumstances. It's practically a cultural norm for them to declare themselves in any event. Especially so when the mistress of the house has returned.

But Castin didn't expect this!

When the doors to the grand entrance hall swing open by Ezekiel, the head butler steps aside and bows. That's when Castin sees it.

A literal red carpet has been rolled out to receive them. On each side are rows of servants bowing their heads just as low as Ezekiel's, with their arms pressed firmly and out of line against their sides.

"Hail, Lady of the Hall! Hail the brightest Anesidora diamond! We welcome thee home and serve at her grace's pleasure!"

Their voices rise in a solemn, orchestrated chant that echoes throughout the magnificent entrance hall. It leaves Castin's jaw hanging and ringing his ears. Their uniformed greeting is no different than the military's, so at least that's familiar.

"I have returned and with me today is Ezekiel and my husband. Your new Lord of the House and the Commander from Intacia," Celica announces. Loud and powerful, not unlike how Castin himself would address his men. And thus, he seamlessly snaps to attention when the servants' head rises in perfect unison. He carefully noted how they only looked at him with his wife's permission. It's... creepy.

It's only then Castin realises how unnerving the silence has become. He takes his cue when Celica is watching him expectantly. "A-Ah, hey!" He coughs into his fist and tries again. "Right. Like my lovely - uh - the Baroness said, I'm her new husband. Actually, only husband. First and last. Hopefully. If all goes well..."

Not a single smile on the servants' faces. Just perfect copies of blank professionalism.

"Tough crowd."

Celica squeezes his hand in comfort and saves him from the awkward tension. "Thank you for the welcome. My husband and I appreciate it. You all may resume your duties. Ezekiel, follow up with Steward Gerard for tonight's affairs. You know what Lord Tristan likes."

And with that, everyone immediately cleared the grand entrance hall. All except Celica and Castin. He takes this time to survey the room; a sweeping staircase with polished mahogany banisters ascends to the upper floors. A lone, giant portrait of Talia Anesidora hangs on the floor like a looming spectre while trapped within intricate gold moldings. A glittering chandelier hangs overhead, casting a warm glow on the black-and-white marble floor. The scent of beeswax polish and fresh flowers fills the air, creating an ambiance of understated elegance.

Aged old tapestries depicting House Anesidora heraldry - the amaranth flowers with a pair of daggers tucked behind it - add a splash of colours against white walls.

The Baroness is pleasantly amused at the sight of her husband taking it all in.

Once he had his fill, Castin whistles lowly. He's beyond impressed, and this is only the front door! "Baby, this is something else. And I thought our manor back in Intacia was hella extra!"

"The Hall serves its purpose when need be. Which part of the mansion do you wish to explore first? We still have some time before lunch, after all."

"Is that right? Does that mean no one's gonna bother us while you give me... a private tour of your wardrobe?"

Celica scoffs. "I should have known. Very well. But! You can only choose three."

"Oh, three's more than enough, baby~ ❤️"

(So... guess who just learned about the 7 houses and their mottos from Game of Thrones? 👀😂)

[thedeathlysallows]

Is It Over Now? (12)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Aemma Velaryon

Summary: You drew up some good faith treaties

Warnings: canon typical Targaryen incest. Developing Stockholm Syndrome, Aemma is becoming an unreliable narrator.

Tag list: @callsignwidow

Aemond is gone, but Vhagar returns after two days time, reuniting with Vermithor. Their happy roars echo across King's Landing and it fills your heart with a bittersweet emotion you can't quite name. Is Aemond thinking of you at all in Harrenhal? You know you're thinking of him. Constantly. The smell of him lingers on the bed sheet, on your clothes, and on your skin, fading with each passing day. You feel uneasy without your husband around.

On the third day of his absence a letter arrives strapped to Vhagar's saddle. It's a letter from Aemond, written in High Valyrian. He tells you about Daemon's attempted siege and how Harrenhal withstood it all. He tells you how House Strong no longer stands, their ancestral home now belonging to him. He tells you about a woman. Alys Rivers. She's a supposed bastard of Lyonel Strong, older than Harwin and Larys, but he's taken her as a prisoner of war.

It doesn't sit right with you, the way he talks about this woman. His tone is almost... love sick.

He tells you that you would like her, and you decide to be the judge of that.

Getting out of the Keep won't be simple. None of the guards will allow you to just walk out the front gate... plus, you're certain Aegon himself is still keeping an eye on you. All of your secret tunnels are gone, sealed up by Aemond weeks ago. So, what's left? How can you escape?

Vermithor's loud roar reverberates through the Keep and you dash to the window of your bedchamber. He soars through the sky, dancing along with Vhagar in graceful arches. You let out a low pitched whistle and his head turns in your direction, mighty wings changing his path mid-swoop. Before you can question yourself, you climb on the window ledge and jump, hoping Vermithor understands what you need him to do.

The months the two of you spent apart melt into nothing as you crash on his large back, quiet understanding passing between dragon and rider. Vhagar comes up on your left. Her eyes are old and knowing as she dips her head towards you and takes the lead. You aren't sure which direction Harrenhal is, but both dragons seem to understand what it is you need.

Who it is you need.

Harrenhal is not a pleasant place by any stretch of the imagination. Death seems to linger in the very air, pressing down on your chest and making you want to run and hide. You don't though. You dismount Vermithor with your head held high, already missing the warmth and familiarity of him. He remains as close to you as he can, head swinging back and forth as if waiting for an ambush.

"Easy," you tell him with a gentle pat. "Stay with Vhagar. You'll keep each other safe."

Vermithor huffs at you, smoke billowing from his nostrils. He'll listen only until he senses you're in danger.

As you enter what remains of Harrenhal, you're greeted by Aegon and Aemond's soldiers. Each one bows to you with sheepish expressions. It's as if they know something you don't.

"Where is my husband?" Your gaze flits from soldier to soldier, none of them willing to speak up. "Well?"

"The Great Hall. m'lady," one finally says.

You march past the soldiers, eyes fixed firmly ahead, tuning out the whispers of the men as you leave. Tears sting your eyes but you won’t allow yourself to be humiliated further by crying in front of them. Any of them. Your cheat of a husband included. Because why else would the soldiers stare at you with such pity? Why else would they whisper behind your back? Aemond is fucking the Rivers woman.

There’s simply no other explanation.

“Aemond,” you call out as you enter the Great Hall.

Before you see him you hear a feminine giggle and the soft rumbling of Aemond’s voice.

“Clearly I need to make my presence better known, husband.” Your shoulders tense and you tilt your chin higher as you take in the sight before you. “It seems I took your men off guard… as well as you.”

Aemond doesn’t move from his seat at the head of the high table, doesn’t move to put Alys Rivers off his lap, doesn’t look at you with anything less than anger. In fact, if it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest you could almost believe the shock of seeing you sent him into the arms of the Stranger.

“Aemma,” he finally breathes out your name, shoving Alys to the side. “Why are you here? How are you here? Aegon should’ve had you under lock and key.”

“It seems the bond between dragons is stronger than we all thought.” You give him a non answer. “Did you know Vhagar has been coming to see Vermithor since you departed? She led us here, the smart girl. I wonder what she wanted me to find?”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you shouldn’t be fucking a woman who isn’t your wife! You despise your brother for the very thing you’re now doing. So what is it, Aemond? Are you the honorable man I’ve always cared for or are you a liar no better than his brother?”

Aemond’s violet gaze seems to pierce your soul as he stalks toward you. “Right now I’m a man worried for his wife’s safety. What do you think will happen when they find you missing at the Keep?”

“What do you think will happen when I tell your mother her favorite son is no different than her eldest?” You don’t know why you’re saying these things. All you know is that you want Aemond to hurt. You want to hurt him.

He takes a deep breath, eyes shutting briefly. “You don’t understand what’s happening here. We need Alys-“

“Oh, we do? I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware we needed someone to keep your bed warm while-“

“Leave!”

But his order isn’t directed at you. Instead, Alys (who had been listening very intently to the conversation) offers a quick curtesy and leaves the Great Hall. You stand completely still and quiet, waiting for the swish of her skirts to disappear completely. Once it does you turn back to Aemond who still wears a thunderous expression.

You clear your throat. “I’ll give you one minute to explain what I saw and what your grand plan seems to be.”

“And after I explain?”

“I… haven’t decided. We’ll see once you explain.” Part of you is ready to go back to Vermithor and not even wait for an explanation. It’s the same part of you that is vaguely considering running back into Aegon’s arms. But you won’t do either of those things until Aemond has a chance to explain.

Aemond nods as if reading your mind. “There are whisper that Alys Rivers is a witch with a penchant for seeing the future. We need her. Having her power on our side could end the war tomorrow.”

“End the war… and in this plan, does my mother come out of the war alive?”

“That depends on what Alys sees.”

“You’re giving this strange woman a lot of power and importance.”

Aemond sighs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “It’s a command from the King. I’m to keep her happy and ensure her loyalty.”

“So she gets to sit on your lap and play the part of a princess while I’m locked away?”

His smile is wry when he says, “you don’t currently appear to be locked away.”

You don’t respond to his attempt at levity. “I don’t like this, Aemond.”

“I know. I know. Just trust me, please. Alys will never compare to you.”

You aren’t sure if you believe him, but for now you’ll leave the matter alone.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Not to write meta about my ocs instead of writing the story itself, but I have been dwelling a lot on Percival's relationship with Avensley Hall.

Avensley Hall is a lot like Hamley Hall from Wives and Daughters, 100+ years and two world wars later. Ancestral home of small land owners, time, and lack of resources for maintenance have left it in very poor condition.

A very young Percival, in his high moments of triumph, dreamed of becoming a very famous -and rich- architect, who could, in time, bring his family home to its former beauty and splendor, and so bring more comfort and joy to his parents' old age. The war, his time on the desert campaign and later on in Italy, the death of his parents and subsequent suicidal disregard for his own life ending in the operation that disabled him physically and mentally, would have been the perfect set up for a rousing tale of strength, self reliance and determination to go from rock bottom straight to the top... had Percival been the choleric, proud, driven type. But Percival was not that man. He had, however, many other virtues: he was patient, methodical, generous, dutiful, principled.

And so he went home, after demobilization, a broken old man to a broken old home, and it was very easy for him to fall into this melancholy mood of sympathetic decay with the house itself. He was now, like it or not, "The Squire", no longer "young Percival" but Mr. Avensley; he wrapped himself in his father's clothes -as much an act of sentimentality as a product of war rationing- and set out to fill his role as best he could, without guidance or experience. Life now, he thought then, was for him a mausoleum where he was both corpse and sexton, and so he decided he would be there keeping the rotting place until he was done rotting himself. After all, how was he, tied down as he was by family duty and the mobility complications brought by the loss of his leg, to ever develop professionally? And how would he dare think of marrying, of dragging a poor woman down into his pit, where every night was a Russian roulette of insomnia and vivid nightmares?

He would have noticed the touch of silliness in this way of going about if it wasn't that he was really ill in his mind, and very isolated, as his sister had married a diplomat and gone abroad, and dear old Mrs. Andrews was a terribly serious and reserved woman, little inclined to humor or displays of affection. People in the town pitied him, and he did not like pity that wasn't his own, so he withdrew as much as he could, which only had the effect of intensifying the general pity towards him. The old ladies of Avensley, who had known him since he was a baby, were not above romanticizing him as a sort of lonely prince in a tower, and often wishing between themselves that a sweet girl bride -which they meant in the Victorian sense of young, innocent and beautiful- could be found to cure all his ills and cheer him up. How much Percival understood of this wish -which was mercifully never verbalized in his presence-, and how much it influenced his decision to further isolate, I rather not clarify.

So it is interesting when Nadine goes to live at Avensley, that she does not notice or think at first of what Percival considered a heavy-handed sympathetic metaphor of ruin in the narrative of his life. Perhaps it was because proud young men putting on brave faces was not a novelty to Nadine the way an old country house that has seen better days was, or a little wounded vanity at his apparent complete indifference towards her, or that nothing seemed to be the matter with him other than he was perhaps a bit too thin and a tad too impregnable, but she was clearly more attracted by the house at first than his owner. But then Nadine was a determined woman and she would befriend the man, and once friendship was established she started to see the likeness, but in a very different way. Percival, obsessed with light and air (we must forgive him, he is an architect after all) can only see the limitations, the constriction, the annoyances of stone and mortar and earth; Nadine, as she lets her old romanticism unsour her restless energy, sees strength, safety and warmth that has suffered the storms and survived, not unscathed, but all the same survived them.

Ultimately it is this contrast of perspective on who Percival is and who he can be that is at the crux of his part in the main conflict of the story, and an understanding that his circumstances are as much an opportunity as they are a limitation to flourishing so essential to its resolution. Just because a set of circumstances contrary to what his aspirations and plans once were is more or less forced upon him, it doesn't mean that there is nothing he can do, that all hope is lost.

The first Avensley of Avensley Hall was unwittingly wise when, in trying to draw from the Gospel maxim, wrote the Avensley family motto to be ex vetera nova, from the old, the new.

[wangxianficrecs]

💙 Story-Shaped by lingering_song

💙 Story-Shaped

by lingering_song

T, 13k, Wangxian

Summary:Nie Huaisang knows that things in this world are rarely story-shaped. That they're more akin to ink spilled on parchment - Messy and unpredictable and rather tragic. But out of all the threads he's woven throughout damn near a decade, he had not expected the most straightforward of his ploys to go this awry. He had not expected Wei-Xiong to end up here in Qinghe, half-drunk and too thin with no Lan Wangji in sight. Because it turns out that on his way to becoming the Chief Cultivator, the great Hanguang-Jun had left Wei-Xiong on the side of the road to walk alone in a world that most probably still wants him dead. What else could Huaisang have done other than bring Wei-Xiong home with him?

Kay's comments: OK. So. I don't really buy this narrative that at the end of CQL, Wei Wuxian left to find him himself, or because he needed to travel and heal. Instead, I'm definitely team: Lan Wangji, what are you doing? You're giving the most mixed-signals! Pick up your soulmate and bring him home now, before he drinks himself into his second early grave! And on that note: this story is everything I ever wanted and I absolutely love it. It features Nie Huaisang finding Wei Wuxian, being sad and drunk after Lan Wangji left him by the side of the road, and deciding: fuck it, I'm taking him home! And of course, Wei Wuxian thrives in the Nie Sect, where he's given tasks and appreciated and allowed to teach and the cultivation sects hate to see it, but I love it. I live for it. All hail genius Wei Wuxian, my beloved. Eventually, Lan Wangji gets a stern talking-to too and all works out in the end, but of course, until then, we get to enjoy some delicious pining.

Excerpt: "So, where have your travels taken you so far, Wei-Xiong?" "Well, here and there," Wei-Xiong blinks slowly at the change of subject, accepting his newly-filled cup without question, "There's a lot of things to take care of once you're far enough from where the Sects give a fuck. Do you know there's a stretch of old Qishan Wen land that just goes unclaimed and the people without any Sect help at all? Right there, smack-dead between Lanling and Yunmeng. How many years has it been? It's crazy, really." And then it hits him. Why Wei-Xiong is here, in this dingy inn at the very borders of Qinghe Nie territory. Why it took his birds so long to catch any wind that the Yiling Laozu is wandering the land. Wei-Xiong, who wouldn't have felt welcome to go to Yunmeng after what his birds reported happened in the Yunmeng Jiang ancestral halls, who had been stabbed in the guts the last time he was in his nephew's Sect, and who had been the most hated figure in the Cultivation world when he died and when he was revived again. Nie Huaisang realizes, with the kind of swooshing emptiness he feels at particularly heartrending poetry, that Wei-Xiong is a man displaced in time with nowhere to go. That Lan Wangji had probably been the only safe place for him, up until Lan Wangji let him go to walk a world that most probably still wants him dead.

the untamed canon, post-the untamed, pov nie huaisang, chief cultivator lan wangji, inventor wei wuxian, genius wei wuxian, found family, qinghe nie sect, qinghe nie disciples, teacher wei wuxian, good friend nie huaisang, implied/referenced alcoholism, wangxian get a happy ending, wingman nie huaisang, not cultivation world friendly, cultivation sect politics, not jiang cheng friendly, mentioned character death

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)